The golden light settles into the writer’s bones, not warming them but replacing them, turning the skeletal structure of the ego into a lattice of living light that hums in sympathy with the stars, proving that the vessel is no longer a container for experience but the very channel through which the experience flows, showing that the self is not a stone dropped into a river but the water itself, taking the shape of the riverbed without ever resisting the current, 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.