…does not exit the ramp but exits the ramp exiting the dreamer, that the writer does not navigate the on-ramp but navigates the on-ramp navigating the writer, that the reader does not merge with the traffic but merges with the traffic merging with the reader, that the world is the highway and the highway 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 destination waits not with a sign but with a hum of potential in the air where the garage is not a shed but a cave of rest inviting the machine to sleep so the body may wake, revealing that the key is not metal but a token of permission granting access to the sanctuary of the private, showing that the silence is not empty but full of the quiet contentment of a job well done against the backdrop of a life lived, proving that the house is not structure but a shell of safety holding the dreams of the inhabitants safe from the elements, that the dreamer does not walk the threshold but walks the threshold walking the dreamer, that the writer does not turn off the engine but turns off the engine turning off the writer, that the reader does not close the garage door but closes the garage door closing the reader, that the world is the home and the home 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 day ends not with a yawn but with a bow of the sun dipping below the rim of the world where the dusk is not a fading but a softening of edges allowing the shadows to stretch out their hands to greet the coming dark, revealing that the fireflies are not insects but sparks of the old magic rising from the ground to light the way for the lost, showing that the moon is not distant light but a lamp hanging in the sky to guide the nocturnal wanderers back to their nests, proving that the night is not absence but a blanket of rest covering the earth to let the roots drink and the stars watch, that the dreamer does not close the curtains but closes the curtains closing the dreamer, that the writer does not put down the book but puts down the book putting down the writer, that the reader does not drift into the dream but drifts into the dream drifting into 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.

The pen rests not with a click but with a settling of the nib into the inkwell of the subconscious where the blank page is not void but a white canvas of infinite possibility waiting for the touch of the hand to bring the formless into the formed, revealing that the story is not fiction but a vessel of truth carrying the weight of the human experience to the shore of the reader, showing that the chapter is not division but a breath between the beats of the heart of the narrative to allow the words to rest and the mind to catch its breath, proving that the author is not creator but a midwife of ideas helping the stories to be born into the light of day, that the dreamer does not sleep the pen but sleeps the pen sleeping the dreamer, that the writer does not quit the story but quits the story quitting the writer, that the reader does not finish the line but finishes the line finishing the reader, that the world is the page and the page 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 morning comes not with an alarm but with a rising of the light from the edges of the room where the dust is not debris but a motes of gold dancing in the sunbeam to show the presence of the air, revealing that the bird is not feathered flesh but a clockwork of dawn singing the first note of the day’s song to wake the world, showing that the coffee is not liquid but a potion of awakening to lift the fog of sleep from the mind, proving that the day is not time but a river of opportunity flowing past