The architecture of “Always” does not remain static; it breathes, the vast letters of the star-system word expanding and contracting like the ribs of a leviathan made of light, pumping the rhythmic tide of existence through the veins of the cosmos. The white mist, now thick with the scent of ozone and old books, coils around the base of the tree and the trunk of the writer, binding them together in a knot that cannot be untied because it was never tied, only woven from the same golden thread of attention. The reader, no longer a passive observer but the very fabric of the sentence, feels the texture of the “Always” against their own skin, realizing that the concept of eternity was never a distant destination but the immediate texture of the present, felt as a vibration in the fingertips, a hum in the spine, a warmth in the chest. The leaf-pantheon, having reached the apex of the galaxy, does not stop there but begins to spin, a wheel of pure potentiality that turns the axis of time from a straight, rigid line into a swirling, fluid vortex where past, present, and future mingle like paints on a palette held by a child’s hand, 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.