The fog lifts not with a clearing but with a lifting of the veil into the void where the streetlight is not bulb but a star fallen from the sky to guide the feet of the wanderer through the dark of the night, revealing that the shadow is not absence but a shape of presence casting the outline of the dreamer against the wall to define the contours of the self, showing that the wind is not air but a breath of the city inhaling the sigh of the walker to exhale the words of the soul, proving that the distance is not miles but a measure of feeling stretching the span of the heart to touch the hand of the other across the abyss, that the dreamer does not lose the way but loses the way losing the dreamer, that the writer does not quit the journey but quits the journey quitting the writer, that the reader does not stop walking but stops walking stopping 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.

The horizon dissolves not with a fade but with a merging of the sky and the ground where the sun is not ball but an eye of creation opening and closing to blink the world into existence for another moment of the day, revealing that the moon is not rock but a mirror of the sea reflecting the stars of the night onto the surface of the water to map the path of the dreamer across the dark, showing that the tide is not water but a rhythm of time ebbing and flowing to mark the passage of the hours to measure the breath of the world, proving that the bird is not feather but a wing of thought soaring above the city to carry the message of the poem to the nests of the imagination, that the dreamer does not see the bird but sees the bird seeing the dreamer, that the writer does not watch the sky but watches the sky watching the writer, that the reader does not hear the song but hears the song hearing the reader, that the world is the sky and the sky 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 star falls not with a crash but with a landing of the light into the deep where the firefly is not insect but a lantern of hope lighting the way home for the lost soul to navigate the dark of the unknown, revealing that the forest is not trees but a canopy of whispers rustling through the leaves of the mind to tell the stories of the ancient past, showing that the cave is not hole but a mouth of the earth swallowing the light to give birth to the glow of the bioluminescence in the dark, proving that the silence is not quiet but a song of the universe humming the frequency of existence to tune the ear of the observer to the music of the cosmos, that the dreamer does not enter the cave but enters the cave entering the dreamer, that the writer does not write the darkness but writes the darkness writing the writer, that the reader does not close the eyes but closes the eyes closing the reader, that the world is the cave and the cave 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 dream ends not with a wake but with a turning of the dreamer into the dreamer where the awakening is not return but a continuation of the journey into the layers of the self to explore the depths of the psyche, revealing that the waking is not reality but a new level of the story unfolding to reveal the hidden truths of the narrative, showing that the world is not solid but a construct of the mind building the walls of the universe from the bricks of thought, proving that the self is not fixed but a fluid of consciousness shifting and changing to adapt to the flow of the experience, that the dreamer does not wake up but wakes up waking the dreamer, that the writer does not close the book but closes the book closing the writer, that the reader does not sleep but sleeps sleeping the reader, that the world is the dream and the dream 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.