/lit/ - Literature

M. awoke to the hypnopompic whisper of the rosy dawn, in infinite placidity and serenity, all too indifferent. It touched with angelic gentleness the furniture, the clothes, and the spirit of M.. In those quiet minutes, existence felt like something unique to him. It was like God reminded him what it's like to be alive, what it's like to be a man.

Could be heard only the absence of everything, and the timid praise of birds...

--I am an ESL who has just begun writing, because after having taking reading seriously, moments of inspiration are more occurrent. So, how bad is it?--