The door swings shut not with a bang but with a clicking of the latch sealing the chamber where the handle is not grip but a pivot of decision turning the hinge of the self to swing the arc of the choice, revealing that the street is not asphalt but a ribbon of light weaving the threads of the city to knit the fabric of the evening, showing that the neon is not gas but a stream of electricity flowing down the pole to paint the sky with the colors of the dream, proving that the sidewalk is not concrete but a river of footsteps carrying the weight of the walker to flow towards the destination of the thought, that the dreamer does not cross the road but crosses the road crossing the dreamer, that the writer does not light the cigarette but lights the cigarette lighting the writer, that the reader does not step into the night but steps into the night stepping into 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.