On a evening in the mountains, there was a writer, He wrote and wrote but he didnt had inspiration. He went walking in the neighbouring school. he heard the greatest stories, and walkd into the class. In that class was a little boy, playing with a mini piano, his player and a green alien. The bell rings at half past 3. The boy cleand his toy and looked into the eyes of the writer. there he stands, without a story ... in an empty stool
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