A message for writers from my 200th birthday.

A tropical sunrise on Isla Perdita, my lost island, nine degrees north of the equator. I loved writing in the morning sunshine, my mind clear as the azure sky, ideas swirling on cool breezes. Half above the horizon, the electric-red sun skimmed low across the glassy surface of the black Pacific, a shimmering highway beckoning me to embark on a journey to past and future alike. A hundred meters out, dolphins jumped, playing at catching their breakfast. Their splashing mingled with the cawing of gulls circling above and the soft lapping of the waves around my feet.

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