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Creative Writing: A Separate Peace

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Strutting through the familiar, gate worn by time, I spread my arms, taking in the saccharine aroma of the fresh grass. The remaining glimmers of the sun glisten on every blade that peeks through the moist soil, composing a sea of sparkling beauty, only comparable to a poem. The meadow is breathtaking this evening, as the sun sets behind the trees in the distance, leaving a glow of pinks, peaches, ambers, and crimsons behind as if a bowl of fruit had exploded in the sky.
Every evening, slightly before dusk, I come here to catch a glimpse of the sun going down, and to feel the warmth of the last few rays on my skin before saying goodbye, and welcoming the faithful orb of night. This place makes me feel at home, comfortable, relaxed. Peace lives

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