The breath holds not with a pause but with a suspension of the air in the lung where the inhale is not intake but a drawing of the universe into the chest to expand the lungs of the cosmos to hold the weight of the stars, revealing that the exhale is not release but a pushing of the self into the void to send the wave of the thought to ripple across the surface of the infinite to touch the edge of the imagination, showing that the silence is not quiet but a canvas of sound waiting for the brush of the voice to paint the colors of the emotion to fill the space of the soul, proving that the voice is not sound but a thread of connection weaving the tapestry of existence to bind the speaker to the listener across the chasm of the unknown, that the dreamer does not speak the word but speaks the word speaking the dreamer, that the writer does not stop the stream but stops the stream stopping the writer, that the reader does not hear the sound but hears the sound hearing the reader, that the world is the breath and the breath 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 pulse stops not with a halt but with a merging of the beat into the rhythm of the earth where the heart is not muscle but a drum of existence beating in the time of the now to mark the beat of the present, revealing that the blood is not red but a river of life flowing through the veins of the body to nourish the cells of the self with the sap of the experience, showing that the cell is not unit but a brick of consciousness building the walls of the identity to hold the shape of the mind, proving that the death is not end but a transition of energy shifting form to continue the dance of the atoms in the spiral of the cosmos, that the dreamer does not die but dies dying the dreamer, that the writer does not write the end but writes the end writing the writer, that the reader does not finish the life but finishes the life finishing the reader, that the world is the body and the body 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.