text: A writer wakes up in the evening. He starts by looking at the snow. And he's trying to assess and write his feelings. And he's in a small cabin with no internet connectivity. He called for evenings: it's getting down as far as his writing is concerned. The dark scene around his cabin enshrines the peak around him. He is just here to relax. His project required quiet and silence. It's early in the season where he lives, so this implies only that it is time to write. And it is the best time to write. It is not the first series he has written. His audiences have experienced his wild imagination. However, he hoped that spring was coming soon. And it was not under his control. There's no sound like any in his room. It was very pure. It's a clash between the worlds of modern life and nature. He could note that his carefree weekend was drifting away when he headed into the bedroom. The man was thinking of starting out with his monologue. He seems to have also written about his previous moderation. Writing is still depleting itself. And it impacts how he feels. So unexpected and strong came the longing which nagging entered his mind. As he continues to think to himself, “Tell me. Talk to me. This is my jealousy. A spectrum of mood, where am I falling? The constantly changing continuum, ever changing.” Just scattered thoughts. He visualizes his thoughts on a possible story to write. The protagonist ought to be a privileged programmer. And characterized as a capitalist with an abundance of values. These include only making money. Maybe he can make an app that has a good ego. He was very much a specialist at his profession. It entertains the hypocrisy of capitalist morality, the dreadful weakness of the human mind. But above all, to claim that the story was about the effect of surviving a lack of meaning. All of my thoughts are about living life. And a painter should be the secondary character. An artist who can be overconfident at times. However, he's got some abilities. The most thrilling plot is necessary. It keeps the attention of the reader and it keeps him writing as well. Otherwise the story would never be finished. The artist doesn't agree with anything the faith teaches, but still wants other people to go to church. There was no reason to focus solely on Christianity. The story should be about fate and liberty. The conflict and plot is about their personal relationship. With a sense of historic fantasy encompassing the plot. It starts with a regular meeting in a nature park. The main characters in the story could not be trusted. Two people were revealed in the story to be unknowing related from birth. And both of them are interested in conversation to a fault. They had to engage in conversations to find out more about the future. And he has more thoughts about this issue. He continued on writing. He was puzzled at the unseen bond that had hooked him throughout his written line. All he's going to have to do is concentrate and stop releasing his distractions. He wasn't asking for the story to be composed by itself. He had done it before. It was just his viewpoint that brought him further. He was only able to see so much. However, his own thoughts always hit him at the most inconvenient times. His thoughts are swarming him while he is writing. For him, a source of confusion. He no longer needs energy. It may have been due to a lapse in his executive function. His comfort to an extreme. What about Michelangelo? Good portrait mode. And he has a handle on it. It's really hard to believe otherwise. And if he had wanted to commission a painting of what the world looks like, he would have preferred Michelangelo’s viewpoint above the heavens. One can, however, go beyond the typical named artists. Many can paint well. However, not like Michelangelo. Going back to the painter. As the painter paints, his DNA is dripping out of his bare hands. And when the oil reaches the canvas, it spreads, multiplies and divides like a cell line. It's alive, and it's trying to survive on the canvas. The artwork he is making incorporates the drippings of his genetic material. As if the painting makes him a genetic engineer. He is still confused by the almost randomness of how this whole life fits together. All of the colors swirl together to express not proteins but emotions. Painting a new protein, new color, new angle and ways of seeing the world. This continues as he explores the world. The lord and the king of eternity. Let us pray in the name of God. Painting a gene encoding, a new light, a new perspective, and opportunities to see nature. It was too early, and he became too tired to do his writing. He should have been in bed by now, so he could find his adventure on the next day. He still had work to do. And it was going to take a while for him to finish his story. His evening, in any case, proceeds absent a lot of thought. Also, his future regular assumptions are beginning once again. Taking care of the ink. The night wasn't lost to him. What's more, for his personality, it was beneficial. I have used a vast amount of resources that have translated to a peaceful existence. I needed rhythm and suspense. An opportunity to compromise myself before my passion. Not really a relaxed path of life. And he chooses, at the last second, to make an attempt on the frozen surface outside. And when he comes back in he decides to compose a poem: Directly from of the beginning of the fields, the forested areas, the waterways, the homesteads, the slopes, the wine, I acclaim you with poise and with the light of the stars. Furthermore, the brilliance of the day and the shadow of the moon He thought his story was so bad that it had to be funny.