…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 hearth cools not with a whisper but with a settling of the embers into grey stones where the ash is not dust but the final word of the fire’s story written in charcoal on the soul of the chimney, revealing that the smoke is not vapor but a ghost of the wood rising to join the breath of the heavens above, showing that the cold is not absence but a quieting of the heat allowing the body to remember the chill of the deep earth beneath the foundation, proving that the blanket is not wool but a cloak of warmth wrapped around the shoulders of the weary to invite the self into the embrace of the night, that the dreamer does not pull the covers but pulls the covers pulling the dreamer, that the writer does not extinguish the ember but extinguishes the ember extinguishing the writer, that the reader does not drift off to sleep but drifts off to sleep drifting the reader, that the world is the hearth and the hearth 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 door opens not with a creak but with a sigh of the hinges releasing the tension of the threshold where the handle is not brass but a key of intention turning the lock from the inside of the self to the outside of the world to welcome the stranger or to bid the visitor farewell, revealing that the mat is not fiber but a brush of greeting sweeping the dirt of the road from the soles of the feet to keep the purity of the threshold intact, showing that the hallway is not corridor but a spine of the house connecting the chambers of the mind to the heart of the home, proving that the clock is not timekeeper but a witness of the moments passing like grains of sand slipping through the fingers of the now, that the dreamer does not hear the tick but hears the tick hearing the dreamer, that the writer does not wind the spring but winds the spring winding the writer, that the reader does not check the time but checks the time checking the reader, that the world is the door and the door 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 street light hums not with electricity but with a low frequency of the universe broadcasting the frequency of the night where the bulb is not glass but a eye of the public watching over the sleeping city to ensure the safety of the dreamers within, revealing that the shadow is not absence of light but a shape of the self projected against the wall of the dark to define the edges of the body, showing that the car is not metal but a shell of mobility carrying the consciousness from one destination to the next across the river of asphalt, proving that the traffic light is not signal but a conductor of the social dance directing the flow of the collective body to avoid the collisions of the ego, that the dreamer does not wait at the red light but waits at the red light waiting at the dreamer, that the writer does not drive the vehicle but drives the vehicle driving the writer, that the reader does not glance at the rearview but glances at the rearview glancing at the reader, that the world is the street and the street 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 highway stretches not with miles but with a ribbon of grey extending to the edge of the map where the horizon is not a limit but a promise of more space to hold the expansion of the journey ahead, revealing that the overpass is not bridge but a loop of time connecting the beginning to the end and the end back to the beginning in a circle of perpetual motion, showing that the toll booth is not collection point but a gatekeeper of the soul asking for the payment of attention to cross into the next realm of the road, proving that the exit sign is not arrow but a guide of the will pointing the way forward to the unknown destination that calls the name of the dreamer, that the dreamer does not exit the ramp but