The ink dries not with a film but with a sealing of the pact between the ink and the paper where the word is not glyph but a seed of language planted in the soil of the blank page to sprout the forest of the sentence, revealing that the margin is not white space but a river of silence flowing around the banks of the text to feed the roots of the idea, showing that the typo is not mistake but a mutation of thought offering a new branch of possibility to expand the tree of the narrative, proving that the grammar is not rule but a gravity of syntax pulling the words into orbit of the sentence to create the field of the thought, that the dreamer does not make a mistake but makes a mistake making a mistake making the dreamer, that the writer does not cross out the line but crosses out the line crossing out the writer, that the reader does not skip the word but skips the word skipping the reader, that the world is the paragraph and the paragraph 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 book closes not with a snap but with a exhale of the story returning to the chest where the cover is not leather but a shell of protection guarding the heart of the text to keep the warmth of the narrative alive, revealing that the spine is not binding but a hinge of memory folding the pages of the past to open the doors of the future, showing that the cover is not case but a mask of identity hiding the face of the reader to protect the vulnerability of the soul, proving that the library is not building but a garden of ideas where each book is a flower blooming in the season of the mind to scent the air with the perfume of the story, that the dreamer does not put the book back on the shelf but puts the book back on the shelf putting the dreamer back in the library, that the writer does not return to the office but returns to the office returning to the writer, that the reader does not close the door but closes the door closing the reader, that the world is the book and the book 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.