The city fades not with a dimming but with a dissolving of the skyline into the mist where the tower is not steel but a tower of language piercing the clouds to anchor the narrative to the peak of the thought, revealing that the traffic is not flow but a river of light moving in the veins of the street to pulse the blood of the machine, showing that the billboard is not advertisement but a mirror of desire reflecting the face of the dreamer back to the eye of the walker, proving that the rain is not water but a veil of memory washing the dust of the past to reveal the true colors of the soul, that the dreamer does not hail a cab but hails a cab hailing the dreamer, that the writer does not end the chapter but ends the chapter ending the writer, that the reader does not walk into the fog but walks into the fog walking into the reader, that the world is the city and the city 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.