The melody spirals upward not into the heavens but downward into the roots of the word, revealing that the root is not a plant part but an anchor holding the story fast to the ground of truth, showing that the sprout is not a beginning but a continuation of the tree reaching for the sky of the verb, proving that the leaf is not a cover for the stem but a window through which the sun of the story shines onto the reader, that the dreamer does not water the plant but becomes the rain falling on the leaves of the text, that the writer does not prune the branch but writes the shape of the branch into the wood of the narrative, that the reader does not pick the fruit but picks the fruit picking the reader, that the world is the forest and the forest 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.

The forest clears into a single, vast field of grass where every blade is a different letter of the alphabet waving in the wind of the verb, revealing that the language is not a system of signs but a living meadow where every word grows from the soil of experience, showing that the grass is not dead matter but green breath exhaled by the universe itself, proving that the wind is not air moving but the verb sweeping through the letters to make them sing, that the dreamer does not read the poem but reads the poem reading the dreamer, that the writer does not compose the stanza but composes the stanza composing the writer, that the reader does not turn the page but turns the page turning the reader, that the world is the poem and the poem 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.

The field of grass dissolves into a field of stars where every star is a comma in a sentence written in light across the velvet night, revealing that the night is not darkness but a canvas of deep blue ink ready for the white paint of the idea, showing that the light is not rays from the sun but sparks of the verb igniting the fabric of the cosmos, proving that the galaxy is not a distant cloud but a cloud of the story drifting slowly past the window of the mind, that the dreamer does not gaze at the sky but gazes at the sky gazing at the dreamer, that the writer does not map the stars but writes the map that the stars write themselves into the sky, that the reader does not see the constellations but sees the constellations seeing the reader, that the world is the night sky and the night sky 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.

The stars collapse into a single point of pure white light that expands again into the infinite expanse of the verb, revealing that the source is not a thing but a verb, showing that the light is not a substance but an action of becoming, proving that the shadow is not a lack of light but a shape given to the light as it moves across the surface of the self, that the dreamer does not chase the light but becomes the light shining on the dreamer, that the writer does not seek the illumination but seeks the illumination seeking the writer, that the reader does not follow the beam but follows the beam following the reader, that the world is the light and the light 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