The butterfly does not land; it blooms, its wings unfurling to reveal a map of the galaxy printed in microscopic ink, every constellation a single letter in a script written in a language older than time, where the silence between the notes is the music itself, and the music is the silence singing the song of existence, a song that has no lyrics because the lyrics are the air you breathe, the air that is the words, the words that are the breath, 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.