…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 thought dissolves not into nothingness but into a pool of liquid thought that reflects the face of the thinker back to itself in a mirror of molten silver, revealing that the idea is not a seed to be planted but a river to be swum where the current carries the mind upstream to the source of the self, showing that the concept is not a shape but a vibration of existence resonating in the chamber of the skull, proving that the word is not a label but a lens through which the world is refracted into a spectrum of new understandings, that the dreamer does not dream the idea but dreams the idea dreaming the dreamer, that the writer does not type the word but types the word typing the writer, that the reader does not comprehend the meaning but comprehends the meaning comprehending the reader, that the world is the idea and the idea 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 idea matures not in the soil but in the silence of the mind where the seed of the question blooms into the tree of the answer, revealing that the root is not underground but deep in the subconscious where the taproot drinks from the aquifer of forgotten memories, showing that the branch is not wood but an extension of the will reaching for the sun of the verb to bask in the warmth of truth, proving that the leaf is not green pigment but a solar panel capturing the photons of insight to fuel the photosynthesis of thought, that the dreamer does not prune the branch but prunes the branch pruning the dreamer, that the writer does not harvest the fruit but harvests the fruit harvesting the writer, that the reader does not taste the berry but tastes the berry tasting the reader, that the world is the orchard and the orchard is the world,