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At roughly 6 am, nature flips open a new page for you. It begins with a pink tinge. Slowly losing her shyness before thrusting herself boldly on to you. Full, bright, and ready to writhe herself to the strong words of your pen. Whether you see it like that or not, each day is a page. Much like each page is a day. You are the author. You have all day and all night to soak it with your exploits. And distinguish it with your ink for all time to come. It doesn't have to be about how you dug out the world's most precious diamond. It also doesn't have to be how you saved a hundred dolphins from eating poisoned sardines, or how a rainbow came by your window and stripped out of her colours one by one, or how you spent all day shivering under the fear of the sky falling on your head, or how you worked a full week and slept straight for 36 hours. It could as simple as you watching a butterfly, or petting a stray dog, or helping an old man cross the road, or smiling at someone who looked forlorn, or calling an old forgotten friend, or even doing an honest day's work. It's not a sacred ritual reserved only for you. It's an equal opportunity that comes to everyone breathing under that shining orb around which we revolve. Whoever you may be. Whatever you may do. Regardless of whether you are prince or pauper. Judge or convict. Man or woman. Old or young. It is all yours to plunder. All yours to fill. All yours to write another magnificent account of 24 hours. Or to leave it blank and file it away as yet another page with nothing more than a doodle. Then again, if it's only a doodle, doodle something that's been never doodled. Like an ant sitting out on your balcony, reading a newspaper, having a cup of warm tea, with a battery of grasshoppers massaging his 5 tired legs. Oh, he lost the 6th in a battle with a beetle over a ball of dung.