From the friendly caves of Pixie Hollow.

Read slowly. 

Imagine this, with your heart and soul:

In the early morning sunlight, the newly unearthed and salty sand sparkled. The beach was really a series of sandy paddocks, fenced in by millions of striped, blue, white, orange, purple, grey, and rippling, scarred, pockmarked, and gem-like quartz-trapped rocks. The landscape rose and fell in miniscule dunes, the tide-line mimicking the shelf that stretched way out towards the horizon: Long and flat, then dropping away suddenly as if sucked out by a powerful vacuum cleaner.

That vacuum was audible.

The pulsating waves worked in two directions. Just as one crashed over itself and smashed into a thousand foaming bubbles, it simultaneously sucked itself back underneath. It was an endless  circular breathing exercise that pulled the air from your chest and away towards the deep ocean as you watched.

Just as that breath left your body in an arc of ecstatic sympathy, you heard the millions of rocks turning themselves over and over under the water. They smashed into each other, tapping, clacking, rollicking, in a basso symphony that underscored the crash, slluurrrpBANGwhoooooshhhhh hushhhhh szhszhszhszhszh of the waves' perpetual dance.

There were no seagulls. Instead, the intricate warble of a magpie family.

There were no shells. Instead, the sharp summer sun - a mere eight hours after that one day of the year in which the sun stands still - threw into sharp and gigantic relief the shadows of purple-headed meat-ants who scurried around, over, under, and into the gaps of the rocks.

Someone, or someones, had left stone circles at intervals along the beach.

Someone, or someones, had left cairns, standing stones, and little piles and ship-like sculptures hidden in the undulating patterns of the landscape.

Pagans, perhaps, those who acknowledge the solstice.

Other Fae. Wishful thinking?

Or kids.

And you, standing here caught in a hair's-breadth moment wonder to yourself: 

How do you write the music of the sea?

This is what I did yesterday morning.

You're wondering right now how on earth this is relevant to your business.

I'll tell you:

It's a lesson in observation.

If you've never walked into the foyer of your business and taken a moment to be spellbound by its visuals, its scents, the light feathery touch of its airflow, the sounds of your reception, meetings, maybe even traffic (foot/cars) going past, then you've never actually experienced it.

Yet all of these impressions hit your customers.

Many of them hit your customers' conscious minds the first time they walk in.

They note the chairs spaced weirdly far apart, as if everyone has leprosy and is going to die if they talk to each other. They think, what a beautifully kept indoor plant. They see the scattered newspapers and remark with surprise that they're eight days old.

Each of these things matter.

You don't see them.

Maybe you never did.

Yet when it comes to content, all of these things form the potential for new materials. For example, you could: