The ideal writing spot, for me, would be on a beach, all alone. I would love to sit in a beach chair and feel the bubbles from the ocean massage the crevasses between my toes. I could listen to the majestic caw of the seagulls marking their domain, and the gentle surf lulling me into a dreamlike fantasy. The fresh ocean smell would penetrate my every sense. From here my mind could wander to an Irish countryside covered in wisps of emerald green grass. I could visit the cavernous halls of ancient castles and dream of the parties and balls that took place so long ago. I could, in my mind, plummet to the depths of the ocean before me. I could imagine a gentle melody to the rhythm of the surf and picture a couple dancing along the beach, their firm bodies covered in sand. I would see them fall to the ground in anticipation of what was to come. In short, I could get lost; I could be free.
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