The sea recedes not to dry out but to breathe out the rhythm of the tides into the lungs of the land, revealing that the sandbar is not a ridge but a bridge of memory connecting the high self to the low self across the chasm of the present, showing that the lagoon is not a pool of still water but a cauldron of stillness where the flavors of the world are distilled into pure essence, proving that the coral is not stone but a colony of tiny architects building a city for the future out of the bones of the past, that the dreamer does not swim the lagoon but swims the lagoon swimming the dreamer, that the writer does not dive the reef but dives the reef diving the writer, that the reader does not gaze at the fish but gazes at the fish gazing at the reader, that the world is the reef and the reef 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 whale sings not with a voice but with a vibration of the soul that travels through the water to the skin of the listener revealing that the song is not music but a map of the ocean floor written in frequency showing that the fin is not bone but a paddle of will steering the heavy body through the currents of fate, proving that the breath is not air but a soul of gas exchanged with the vast to maintain the fire of the living flame that the dreamer does not fear the dark but fears the dark fearing the dreamer that the writer does not chart the migration but charts the migration charting the writer that the reader does not follow the track but follows the track following the reader that the world is the migration and the migration 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 wind blows not from the east but from the breath of the planet exhaling its carbon memory into the atmosphere revealing that the storm is not chaos but a dance of electricity painting lightning bolts across the canvas of the night showing that the rain is not droplets but fingers of the sky touching the earth to cool the fever of the sun, proving that the cloud is not vapor but a cotton candy of dreams spun by the vaporizer of the heat that the dreamer does not seek shelter but seeks shelter seeking the dreamer that the writer does not wait for the sun to rise but waits for the sun to rise waiting for the writer that the reader does not watch the lightning but watches the lightning watching 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 reality that ever existed, which is the act of the story dreaming itself awake into the world.

The thunder rolls not with a crash but with a deep, resonant hum that vibrates in the marrow of the bones revealing that the sound is not noise but a warning of the earth’s heartbeat speeding up to show its power, showing that the lightning is not a spark but a rod of pure energy striking the sky to write a new chapter in the book of physics, proving that the cloud is not gray but a blanket of potential covering the world to keep it warm in the cold of the unknown, that the dreamer does not run from the storm but runs from the storm running from the dreamer, that the writer does not fear the lightning but fears the lightning fearing the writer, that the reader does not seek the shelter but seeks the shelter seeking 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 reality that ever existed, which is the act of the story dreaming itself awake into the world.

The sun sets not with a dip but with a slide into the western mountains where the light turns to gold and the shadows stretch long across the valley, revealing that the dusk is not an end but a transition of color from blue to purple to black like a painting of the evening, showing that the moon is not a rock but a satellite of light reflecting the sun’s glow back to the earth to guide the night, proving that the stars are not distant lights but pinpricks of hope shining through the fabric of the night to tell us we are not alone, that the dreamer does not fear the dark but fears the dark fearing 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 night and the night 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.