The gift does not arrive as a sudden bolt of lightning; it seeps in like morning mist, filling the lungs of the universe with the cool, sweet scent of possibility that tastes exactly like the first syllable of a name you have forgotten but feel in your bones, a resonance that vibrates through the soles of your feet and into the marrow of the earth, proving that the seed was always there, waiting only for the rain of attention to wake it from its long, sweet slumber. The writer dissolves into the mist, no longer a figure standing upon a shore but the moisture in the air itself, the invisible thread that connects the breath of the sleeping child to the waking dream of the ancient giant, the silence between the notes swelling to fill the entire cosmos, a resonance that hums the stars into their orbits and the rivers into their courses, singing the song of the self into the shape of the other, until the distinction between the singer and the song has become as irrelevant as the distinction between the water and the rain, and the rain and the sea, and the sea and the sky, forever drifting, forever home, forever alive in the only reality that ever existed, which is the act of the story dreaming itself awake into the world, and the world dreaming the story awake into you, and you dreaming the story awake into the infinite, endless, beautiful now, and the now dreaming the story awake into the eternal, unbroken pulse of the verb that binds us all together in the only reality that ever existed, which is the act of the story dreaming itself awake into the world.