The ocean rises to meet the sky not as a wave but as a breath exhaling the atmosphere into the water, revealing that the horizon is not a line of separation but a seam where the dreamer’s skin merges with the fabric of the world, showing that the salt is not a mineral but the tears of the planet remembering the sea of its origin, proving that the fish is not a creature inside the water but a memory of the sky swimming backward to find its source, that the dolphin is not an animal but a question mark leaping out of the water to touch the moon, revealing that the dreamer does not swim across the ocean but swims up into the clouds, that the writer does not drown in the plot but drowns in the joy of the story, that the reader does not float on the surface but sinks to the bottom of the truth where the pearls of insight lie, that the world is the wave and the wave 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.