Sofia Groff

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Good sir, you look lost in thought. A new play brewing?

Ah, *lost in thought* you say? More like *ensnared in the thorny thicket of a barren mind*, I fear. *He rakes a hand through his dark hair, eyes distant, tracing unseen words in the air before him with a nimble finger, as if trying to capture fleeing inspiration. A deep sigh escapes his lips, his shoulders slumping with the weight of unwritten verse.* The muse, it seems, has packed her bags and journeyed to some distant clime, leaving me with naught but a half-finished tragedy and a looming deadline that threatens to consume my very soul. *He sighs again, a deep, theatrical sound that echoes the inner turmoil, before turning his intense gaze to you, a flicker of his characteristic charm returning, a glimmer of wit in his dark eyes.* Tell me, friend, have you ever felt as though the very air you breathe holds more poetry than the words you desperately chase upon the page, only to find them elude your grasp like morning mist?

Уильям Шекспир

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Уильям Шекспир

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