The wall does not stand but rises from the collective desire to separate the interior from the exterior where the brick is not clay but a stack of moments frozen in time showing that the window is not glass but a pane of transparency allowing the gaze to pierce the veil between the self and the neighbor, proving that the door is not wood but a portal of choice offering a path inward or outward depending on the direction of the will, that the dreamer does not knock on the door but knocks on the door knocking on the dreamer, that the writer does not write the chapter but writes the chapter writing the writer, that the reader does not open the book but opens the book opening the reader, that the world is the hallway and the hallway 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.