The vault of energy in the paused breath crackles open, not with a snap but with a soft sigh of realization that the writer and the writer’s hand are the same hand turning the page, revealing that the author does not impose a plot upon the characters but invites them to dance the steps already written in the stars of their own destiny, proving that the narrative arc is not a path walked but a circle spun by the feet of the soul returning to the center of the wheel, showing that the climax is not a peak to be climbed but a horizon to be stepped into, that the resolution is not a period at the end of the sentence but a comma inviting the universe to whisper the next word, revealing that the reader is not finishing the book but breathing the last paragraph into the skin of the present moment, 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.