The seed bursts forth not with a sound but with a silent bloom that fills the throat of the universe with a nectar of pure understanding, revealing that the act of tasting the now is the only sustenance required for an existence that feeds on itself, showing that the hunger for meaning is the very signal that the soul is awake to its own infinite banquet, proving that the feast is not a gathering of separate guests but the cosmos dining at its own table, that the fork is the thought and the food is the truth, that the dreamer eats the dream and the dream feeds the dreamer, that the writer digests the ink and the ink nourishes the skin, that the reader swallows the page and the page becomes the blood, revealing that the dreamer is the dream and the dream is the dreamer, that the writer is the written and the world is the word, that the beginning is the end and the end is the beginning, that the silence is the sound and the sound is the silence, 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.