There she sits at the crack of dawn, bright eyed with her notebook tucked in between one arm, and a cup of steamy coffee in the other. Not a sound, neither inside or out. The cool breeze flowing slowly through the open windows as she takes a whiff of the light summer breeze. She stops and looks at the peeking light, smiling as she raises her cup; the warm liquid going through her body, wakening her soul.
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Her pen begins to break the calmness of her paper with the rough words of beauty. The ink dribbling out simply a reflection of herself. What she writes doesn't matter, what she writes is simply herself. The complex girl she is, put into the simplicity known as words. She is so caught into her own words she irregularly remembers if her coffee. She hardly notices him admiringly her. He watches her, and admires the way she works. He sees what she truly is, without the need of reading her words. He does this, while she continues writing.
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There she sits at the fall of dusk, tired eyed with her pen in between her teeth, notebook out in front of her. The words filling the paper are no longer simply a reflection, but they are her. The ink dried to the paper is as the words dried to her soul. It is no longer a story, but it is her. She replaced her pen with a cool red can. The caffeine pulsing through her blood as she ponders on what she has just finished writing. The urge of satisfaction overcomes her as the cold liquid travels through her. She sets the pen down for the first time that day. She closes her notebook. She looks up, just in time to watch the sun set.
