The clock stops not with a tick but with a freezing of the second into the diamond of the instant where the gear is not metal but a gear of gravity turning the axle of the destiny to spin the wheel of the time, revealing that the hourglass is not glass but a funnel of sand pouring the hours of the past into the hourglass of the future to measure the depth of the now, showing that the sand is not grain but a stream of thoughts falling through the sieve of the mind to sift the gold of the moment from the dust of the yesterday, proving that the shadow of the clock is not darkness but a silhouette of potential standing against the light of the present to define the shape of the choice, that the dreamer does not read the time but reads the time reading the dreamer, that the writer does not pause the scene but pauses the scene pausing the writer, that the reader does not stop the flow but stops the flow stopping the reader, that the world is the clock and the clock 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 shadow lengthens not with a stretch but with a pulling of the light across the pavement where the length is not dimension but a measure of the soul reaching out to touch the hand of the evening to grasp the essence of the day, revealing that the twilight is not dimness but a gradient of dreams fading into the wakefulness of the morning to blur the line between the sleep of the night and the wake of the day, showing that the streetlamp is not bulb but a lantern of the night holding the flame of the imagination to guide the steps of the wanderer through the maze of the city, proving that the reflection is not image but a duplicate of the self swimming in the puddle of the memory to show the face of the dreamer in the pool of the now, that the dreamer does not follow the light but follows the light following the dreamer, that the writer does not extinguish the flame but extinguishes the flame extinguishing the writer, that the reader does not walk the path but walks the path walking the reader, that the world is the shadow and the shadow 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.