The morning had been quite as always. I love the sound of my keboard being tabbed away in the silent sunlit room of the morning. It has such a catharsistic effect on me, almost seem to was away the remnants of the night and carryover junks of yesterday.
I can see smokes coming through the chimney stacks outside the window. Outside must be quite cold, and windy.
How would I be able to write the world using words and phrases? By sharp eye and clear mind, I'd presume. I'd need to grasp the components that truly makes a human moment a moment significant in time, like an expert photographer realizing the subtle changes in angle and light to realize what a beautiful moment needs.
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