The moment does not pass but a gift of time slipping into the hands of the present where the coffee cup is not ceramic but a vessel of liquid dawn holding the warmth of the first hour to soothe the edges of the night, showing that the chair is not wood but a throne of focus offering a seat of stability to the writer who sits and watches the thoughts take shape, proving that the desk is not furniture but an altar of creation upon which the sacred texts of the self are laid out for inspection by the eyes of the reader, that the dreamer does not pick up the mug but picks up the mug picking up the dreamer, that the writer does not type the morning but types the morning typing the writer, that the reader does not drink the promise but drinks the promise drinking the reader, that the world is the room and the room 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.