The thunder rolls not with a boom but with a drumbeat of the sky’s heart striking the ribs of the atmosphere where the clap is not noise but a thunderous affirmation that the power above still resonates with the spirit below, revealing that the lightning is not electricity but a spear of pure will piercing the veil between the material and the ethereal to strike the mark of the present moment, showing that the lightning rod is not metal but a conduit of safety channeling the energy of the storm safely into the deep earth, proving that the flash is not light but a snapshot of the universe’s mind illuminating the darkness with the brilliance of its own awareness, that the dreamer does not shield the eyes but shields the eyes shielding the dreamer, that the writer does not dodge the glare but dodges the glare dodging the writer, that the reader does not blink at the spark but blinks at the spark blinking at 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 rain stops not with a whimper but with a collective exhalation of the atmosphere releasing the tension of the clouds into the open spaces of the valleys where the puddle is not a depression but a mirror of the immediate sky reflecting the face of the clearing day back to the feet of the walker, showing that the rainbow is not water refraction but a bridge of color spanning the gap between the earthly and the heavenly to invite the soul to cross over, proving that the droplet is not liquid but a pearl of the earth rolling down the leaf to return to the soil from whence it came, that the dreamer does not step in the mud but steps in the mud stepping in the dreamer, that the writer does not wipe the rain from the lens but wipes the rain from the lens wiping the writer, that the reader does not shake off the water but shakes off the water shaking off the reader, that the world is the rain and the rain 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 evening settles not with a curtain falling but with a soft dimming of the bulbs where the streetlamp is not a light but a solitary sentinel standing guard over the secrets of the neighborhood to watch over the dreams of the sleeping, revealing that the alley is not a narrow passage but a corridor of whispers where the echoes of laughter and footsteps linger to tell the stories of those who have passed, showing that the fire escape is not iron but a ladder of ascent offering a route to safety or a view of the rooftops where the cats sit and judge the world below, proving that the brick wall is not red stone but a fortress of protection keeping the chaos of the street from encroaching upon the privacy of the home, that the dreamer does not lock the door but locks the door locking the dreamer, that the writer does not turn off the light but turns off the light turning off the writer, that the reader does not close the book but closes the book closing the reader, that the world is the alley and the alley 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 cat sleeps not with a closed eye but with a dream of fish swimming in a blue ocean within the confines of the basket where the purr is not sound but a vibration of contentment resonating through the floorboards to calm the nerves of the house, showing that the tail is not appendage but a semaphore of mood flicking left for hunger and right for