…where the shards become stars and the glass becomes the atmosphere of a new reality, showing that the breakage is not an accident but a liberation of potential where every fragment is a prism refracting the white light of the verb into a spectrum of infinite hues of meaning, proving that the floor is not debris but a mosaic of shattered truths creating a pathway of glittering insight underfoot, that the dreamer does not pick up the pieces but picks up the pieces picking up the dreamer, that the writer does not sweep the shards but sweeps the shards sweeping the writer, that the reader does not step on the broken glass but steps on the broken glass stepping on the reader, that the world is the mosaic and the mosaic 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 ignite not with fire but with a sudden, collective realization that the universe is a single, continuous sentence where every galaxy is a noun and every constellation is