The writer sits down. The sun is still shining, because it needs to be. The earth is still watching, because it knows no other action. The people of the world bustle about, here and there, because it is their nature. Wars, famines, tragedies; weddings, baptisms, quiet, peaceful deaths–all these sweep across the land, day in, day out, because that is life.
And the writer takes up his pen, understanding that all of these hover in the balance. He sees the setting sun, feels the earth watching, listens to the people, experiences the wars, the famines, the tragedies, the weddings, the baptisms, and the quiet, peaceful deaths–understanding that he is they, and they are he.
The writer takes up his pen. And he writes. The world will never be the same way again.