The time stands still not with a freeze but with a solidifying of the moment into the crystal of the now where the clock is not gear but a heart of the universe ticking in the chamber of the mind to keep the beat of the eternal to mark the passing of the eternal, revealing that the hour is not segment but a slice of the pie of existence offering a piece of the future to the hand of the present to taste the flavor of the tomorrow, showing that the minute is not division but a breath of the cosmos inhaling the air of the seconds to exhale the mist of the hours to clear the lungs of the time, proving that the second is not count but a flicker of the light flashing across the retina to register the image of the now to capture the frame of the forever, that the dreamer does not wait for the future but waits for the future waiting for the dreamer, that the writer does not edit the text but edits the text editing the writer, that the reader does not read the clock but reads the clock reading the reader, that the world is the time and the time 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.