Why can't I write like this?

ONE DAY when the sun had come back over the Forest, bringing with it the scent of may, and all the streams of the Forest were tinkling happily to find themselves their own pretty shape again, and the little pools lay dreaming of the life they had seen and the big things they had done, and in the warmth and quiet of the Forest the cuckoo was trying over his voice carefully and listening to see if he liked it, and wood-pigeons were complaining gently to themselves in their lazy comfortable way that it was the other fellow's fault, but it didn't matter very much; on such a day as this Christopher Robin whistled in a special way he had, and Owl came flying out of the Hundred Acre Wood to see what was wanted.


Once again, this proves my theory that, some days, the only effective cure for a slightly bruised soul is a good dose of the beautiful and whimsical writings of Alan Alexander Milne.

This week can end any time it wants to. Right now would be good.

UPDATE: It did. Happy again now.