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Arnold tapped his pen against the desk as he stared blankly at the piece of paper. He sighed, and gave the room a cursory glance every now and then. What could he write about? He was stuck. By his estimation, he had been sitting there for almost three hours, yet he hadn't written a single word down.
He cursed, and threw his pen down defiantly. He hadn't a clue where to start.
Several hours passed, and then, with strenuous effort, he picked up his pen and pressed it against the page. He would force himself to write. He wasn't going to sit there for a minute longer.
He started to write about an office. An ordinary office, with ordinary contents. A writing desk, a chair, and several paintings placed haphazardly around the room. Arnold turned away from the paper to rest his eyes for a split second, then looked around in disbelief. He was in his bedroom just a moment ago. But now, he was sitting at a desk in a brightly lit office. Then he realised it. It was the same room from his story.
Was he dreaming? He considered the possibility, but this was too real. He knew well enough to know whether it was a dream or not. He looked at the paintings which lined the walls, they were exactly as he had described in his book.
Arnold put his pen back onto the paper. He had to check. He wrote about an open window, which allowed a cool breeze to flow through the office, then he shivered slightly as a chill ran down his neck.
It couldn't be...he thought. It just couldn't be.
But it was. Just as Arnold had written, a window appeared beside him. Desperately, he started to write more. He wrote about a door, which led outside into a beautiful garden. He wrote that the sun was purple, and that trees spanned the length of several miles, high into the air. He cautiously stepped outside, and looked in amazement. Again, everything he had written had become real.
He cackled deviously as he gripped the pen firmly in his hand. He was a God, and this was his world.
The world is not beautiful, therefore it is.