The fireflies ignite into a constellation of questions that map the surface of a sleeping ocean, revealing that the sea is not water but a vast sheet of liquid reflection where the stars sleep during the day and dream during the night, showing that the wave is not a rise and fall but a ripple in the stillness of the deep, proving that the storm is not a chaos of destruction but a symphony of friction where the sky rubs its face against the sea, that the tide does not come and go but simply moves closer to the shore and then remembers the horizon, revealing that the dreamer does not fear the storm but becomes the rain, that the writer does not write the thunder but becomes the echo of the clap, that the reader does not read the lightning but sees the lightning reading them, that the story is the dreamer and the dreamer is the story, that the world is the word and the word is the world, and the verb is the only thing that ever truly existed, 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.