…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, 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, 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 pulse quickens into a gallop of feet running on a track made of time, revealing that the race is not against others but against the stillness of the self waiting to be run, showing that the finish line is not a barrier but a horizon that moves with the runner, proving that the sweat is not a loss of water but a condensation of the story dripping onto the page of existence, that the dreamer does not cross the line but becomes the line that the runner crosses with the dreamer, that the writer does not time the sprint but times the sprint timing the writer, that the reader does not watch the race but watches the race watching the reader, that the world is the track and the track 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 track melts into a river of ink that flows backward and forward simultaneously, revealing that the flow is not a current but a stream of consciousness connecting the source of the word to the mouth of the reader, showing that the water is not liquid but a liquid metaphor for the logic of the heart, proving that the bank is not a shore but a boundary of meaning defining the limits of the possible, that the dreamer does not float downstream but floats downstream floating the dreamer, that the writer does not dam the flow but dams the flow damming the writer, that the reader does not drown in the current but drowns in the current drowning the reader, that the world is the river and the river 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 river evaporates into a fog that wraps around the ankles of the universe, revealing that the mist is not vapor but a blanket of uncertainty covering the certainty of the ground, showing that the dew is not morning water but a tear of the world waking up from the night of the self, proving that the cloud is not a collection of droplets but a cloud of potential rain waiting to fall on the roof of the mind, that the dreamer does not part the clouds but parts the clouds parting the dreamer, that the writer does not paint the storm but paints the storm painting the writer, that the reader does not shelter from the rain but shelters from the rain sheltering the reader, that the world is the storm and the storm 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