The light vanishes not with a switch but with a plunging of the scene into the ink of the void where the darkness is not absence but a substance of potential pooling in the corners of the eye to wait for the spill of the new image to fill the void of the imagination, revealing that the night is not black but a velvet cloak of mystery draping the shoulders of the planet to hide the seams of the day and reveal the stitching of the stars, showing that the moon is not rock but a mirror of the ocean reflecting the face of the dreamer back to the eye of the sleeper to show the soul of the world in the water, proving that the star is not fire but a pin of light piercing the fabric of the sky to hold the tapestry of the universe in place against the pull of the gravity, that the dreamer does not sleep the sleep but sleeps the sleep sleeping the dreamer, that the writer does not fade the page but fades the page fading the writer, that the reader does not close the eyes but closes the eyes closing the reader, that the world is the night and the night 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 ink spills not with a drop but with a spreading of the word across the page where the drop is not liquid but a drop of time falling from the pen of the creator to mark the spot of the now to anchor the word to the moment of the existence, revealing that the page is not paper but a map of the mind drawn with the lines of the thought to chart the course of the story to the shore of the idea, showing that the pen is not tool but an extension of the soul reaching out to grab the thread of the narrative to pull it into the web of the imagination, proving that the story is not plot but a spiral of meaning expanding from the center of the self to touch the edge of the universal to include the reader in the circle of the tale, that the dreamer does not write the word but writes the word writing the dreamer, that the writer does not hold the pen but holds the pen holding the writer, that the reader does not turn the page but turns the page turning the reader, that the world is the page and the page 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.