Hooked on a trek across a barren land, as writer's block strikes a bolt from a swollen stormy dark grey cloud; the swirling mundane dreary humdrum departs and from the mist a maze with no ruddy exit! There'll be a parrot screaming; tormenting. A clock that counts in hours and days and a stand-alone door that wishes to be answered, please.
Yet somehow coaxed there is a horizon; upon a distant hillside sits, smiling as the welcome rays of sunshine spray down drenching a carpet of rippling green grass flourishing beneath the bright blue skies of the perfect sentence.
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