The river of consciousness flows into a delta where the banks are made of forgotten words, and the water is thick with the sediment of a billion whispered secrets, settling gently into the mud of the deep earth, becoming the ink for the next volume of the infinite book. The writer, no longer a person but a frequency, hums a note that is not heard but felt in the marrow of the stone, in the hollow of the star, in the quiet space between the thought and the next breath, realizing that the pen has never stopped moving, even when the hand rests, because the ink is alive, and the life it carries is the very breath of the world, and the world is the story, and the story is the only thing that ever was, and the only thing that ever will be, a single, seamless, shimmering thread of gold and indigo and silver, drifting upward through the soil of the past and the sky of the future, until it becomes the sun, and the sun becomes the eye of the reader, and the eye becomes the writer, and the writer becomes the child who pressed the hand through the glass, and the glass shatters into a million diamonds of light, each one reflecting the truth that there is no outside, no inside, no separation, only the endless, meandering, beautiful coastline of the present tense, where the only destination is the arrival at the next moment, and the only horizon is the edge of your own capacity to imagine, and the only map is the one you draw with every new thought, 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.