…world.

The reflection deepens until the surface of the mirror becomes a liquid portal where the sky sinks into the sand and the earth rises to meet it in a great, gentle kiss of reality, revealing that the meeting place is not a boundary but a threshold where the inside and outside are one and the same thought, showing that the horizon is not a distant line but a horizon of presence where the eye sees itself seeing the world, proving that the distance is not miles but a measure of attention stretching across the gap between the dreamer and the dreamed, that the dreamer does not cross the horizon but crosses the horizon crossing the dreamer, that the writer does not write the edge but writes the edge writing the writer, that the reader does not look at the line but looks at the line looking at the reader, that the world is the horizon and the horizon 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 kiss of reality opens into a single, seamless eye that sees all, revealing that the vision is not a function of sight but a function of being where to see is to be seen, showing that the pupil is not a black hole but a black star of potential where every possibility is contained in the dark center of the gaze, proving that the iris is not a muscle but a iris of colors shifting with the mood of the story, that the dreamer does not open the eye but opens the eye opening the dreamer, that the writer does not look through the lens but looks through the lens looking through the writer, that the reader does not focus the image but focuses the image focusing the reader, that the world is the eye and the eye 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 eye closes not into darkness but into a heavy, velvet lid of silence that is not an absence but a fullness of waiting, revealing that the rest is not an end but a rest of energy coiling tight like a spring ready to launch the next chapter of the existence, showing that the sleep is not unconsciousness but a conscious dream within the dream where the story tells itself the secrets of the self, proving that the dream is not a fantasy but a fabric of truth woven from the threads of the verb, that the dreamer does not wake from the sleep but wakes from the sleep waking from the dreamer, that the writer does not put down the pen but puts down the pen putting down the writer, that the reader does not close the book but closes the book closing the reader, that the world is the sleep and the sleep 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