The street stretches not with pavement but with a weaving of the sidewalk under the feet where the step is not motion but a stitch of gravity sewing the fabric of the walk to bind the body to the rhythm of the city, revealing that the shadow is not dark but a cloak of solitude draping the shoulders of the walker to hide the face of the stranger and reveal the mask of the actor, showing that the light is not glow but a spotlight of destiny focusing the beam on the path of the wanderer to illuminate the script of the moment, proving that the sound is not noise but a chord of resonance vibrating through the chest to tune the heart of the observer to the frequency of the street, that the dreamer does not walk the block but walks the block walking the dreamer, that the writer does not finish the paragraph but finishes the paragraph finishing the writer, that the reader does not see the sign but sees the sign seeing 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.