The page turns not with a flap but with a folding of the world upon itself where the blank is not empty but a womb of possibility contracting and expanding to birth the next sentence from the silence of the void, revealing that the story is not line but a river of ink carving the bedrock of the reality to expose the veins of the truth beneath, showing that the character is not fiction but a fragment of the self shedding the skin of the ego to swim in the ocean of the collective to taste the salt of the shared experience, proving that the plot is not sequence but a spiral of meaning twisting upwards to reach the apex of the insight to crown the head of the reader with the laurel of the realization, that the dreamer does not leave the book but leaves the book leaving the dreamer, that the writer does not die the author but dies the author dying the writer, that the reader does not finish the tale but finishes the tale finishing 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.