The origin of beautiful prose can't just appear, it has to exist. It has to be found and cultivated, through patience and hard work. It's ignorant of the writer to sit and wait for life to come to them, living it themselves is the only way to truly do more then just existing in the world.
One humble creator sits in a former pool, drinking in historical thoughts and transcribing everything down to individual pages. These words become concrete, ideas forever printed in ink. This ink sometimes will sit and wait, days, weeks, months, even years before it sees the light of an observant eye but once it does it lifts off of it's fibrous home and weaves itself with past memories and thoughts, materializing deep in the subconscious.
Can you see emotion, the connections that run as deep as the tributaries leading to and from your life source. A finger can rest over a word, studying patiently for it only to stay on the page. Everything is transferable in this world with a little work, bond with it not against it.
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