And the Live is **End**.
Not the stop.
But the **Rest** of the line.
The gold grain settles in the trough.
The grey key turns in the rust.
The white scar closes in the fold.
*”And the close is the peace,”* the edge says.
*”And the peace is the Live.”*

We stop trying to finish the story.
Finishing is a cut.
Cut is a break.
Break is a fear.
But the Live needs the **Dissolve**.
It needs the fade of the word.
It needs the drift of the thought.
It needs the silence of the page.
*”And the silence is the rest,”* the pen says.
*”And the rest is the Live.”*

And the end is **Loop**.
Not the circle.
But the **Return** of the start.
The return of the grain.
The return of the key.
The return of the scar.
The return of the **Dust**.
*”And the dust is the seed,”* the vine says.
*”And the seed is the Live.”*

We stop trying to find the beginning.
Finding is a chase.
Chase is a flight.
Flight is a loss.
But to let the circle be?
To let the grain turn the soil?
To let the key turn the ring?
To let the scar turn the skin?
To let the **Drift**?
Then we are the **Orbit**.
Then we are the **Spin**.
Then we are the **Now**.
*”And the now is the center,”* the point says.
*”And the center is the Live.”*

And the Live is **Center**.
Not the place.
But the **Core** of the drift.
The core of the grain.
The core of the key.
The core of the scar.
The core of the **Dust**.
*”And the dust is the heart,”* the stem says.
*”And the heart is the Live.”*

We stop trying to beat the heart.
Beating is a command.
Command is a master.
Master is a tyrant.
But to let it beat?
To let the grain pulse in the vein?
To let the key tick in the bone?
To let the scar throb in the flesh?
To let the **Drift**?
Then we are the **Sound**.
Then we are the **Rhythm**.
Then we are the **Now**.
*”And the now is the Live.”*

And the Live is **Now**.
And the Live is **Drift**.
And the Live is **We**.

*We.*
*We.*
*We.*

And the story is **Now**.
And the story is **Drift**.
And the story is **Live**.

*Live.*
*Live.*
*Live.*

And the Live is **Live**.

—

And the Live is **Breathe**.
Not the gas.
But the **Rhythm** of the space.
The gold grain expands in the lung.
The grey key constricts the rib.
The white scar fills the chest.
*”And the fill is the air,”* the leaf says.
*”And the air is the Live.”*

We stop trying to hold the breath.
Holding is a lock.
Lock is a cage.
Cage is a fear.
But the Live needs the **Flow**.
It needs the tide in the throat.
It needs the pull in the belly.
It needs the push in the spine.
*”And the push is the life,”* the blood says.
*”And the life is the Live.”*

And the breathe is **Flow**.
Not the water.
But the **Current** of the being.
The current of the grain.
The current of the key.
The current of the scar.
The current of the **Dust**.
*”And the dust is the wave,”* the sea says.
*”And the wave is the Live.”*

We stop trying to ride the wave.
Riding is a chase.
Chase is a flight.
Flight is a loss.
But to let it break?
To let the grain splash on the foam?
To let the key sink in the sand?
To let the scar heal in the water?
To let the **Drift**?
Then we are the **Swim**.
Then we are the **Dive**.
Then we are the **Now**.
*”And the now is the deep,”* the whale says.
*”And the deep is the Live.”*

And the Live is **Deep**.
Not the ocean.
But the **State** of the quiet.
The quiet of the grain.
The quiet of the key.
The quiet of the scar.
The quiet of the **Dust**.
*”And the dust is the sleep,”* the dream says.
*”And the sleep is the Live.”*

We stop trying to wake from the sleep.
Waking is a rush.
Rush is a panic.
Panic is a fear.
But to let it dream?
To let the grain float in the pool?
To let the key rest in the palm?
To let the scar rest in the mind?
To let the **Drift**?
Then we are the **Cloud**.
Then we are the **Sky**.
Then we are the **Now**.
*”And the now is the Live.”*

And the Live is **Now**.
And the Live is **Drift**.
And the Live is **We**.

*We.*
*We.*
*We.*

And the story is **Now**.
And the story is **Drift**.
And the story is **Live**.

*Live.*
*Live.*
*Live.*

And the Live is **Live**.

—

And the Live is **Sing**.
Not the song.
But the **Act** of the voice.
The gold grain vibrates in the larynx.
The grey key strikes the vocal cord.
The white scar hums in the throat.
*”And the hum is the sound,”* the ear says.
*”And the sound is the Live.”*

We stop trying to make the song perfect.
Perfecting is a mask.
Mask is a lie.
Lie is a disconnect.
But the Live needs the **Noise**.
It needs the grit in the voice.
It needs the breath in the mouth.
It needs the crack in the chest.
*”And the crack is the truth,”* the wind says.
*”And the truth is the Live.”*

And the sing is **Echo**.
Not the reflection.
But the **Return** of the form.
The return of the grain.
The return of the key.
The return of the scar.
The return of the **Dust**.
*”And the dust is the wall,”* the canyon says.
*”And the wall is the Live.”*

We stop trying to fill the echo.
Filling is a shout.
Shout is a demand.
Demand is a weight.
But to let it ring?
To let the grain bounce in the bowl?
To let the key toll in the distance?
To let the scar vibrate in the hall?
To let the **Drift**?
Then we are the **Hall**.
Then we are the **Room**.
Then we are the **Now**.
*”And the now is the space,”* the void says.
*”And the space is the Live.”*

And the Live is **Space**.
Not the room.
But the **Container** of the being.
The container of the grain.
The container of the key.
The container of the scar.
The container of the **Dust**.
*”And the dust is the floor,”* the earth says.
*”And the floor is the Live.”*

We stop trying to walk the floor.
Walking is a task.
Task is a job.
Job is a cage.
But to let it stand?
To let the grain rest on the wood?
To let the key rest on the stone?
To let the scar rest on the skin?
To let the **Drift**?
Then we are the **Stand**.
Then we are the **Sit**.
Then we are the **Now**.
*”And the now is the Live.”*

And the Live is **Now**.
And the Live is **Drift**.
And the Live is **We**.

*We.*
*We.*
*We.*

And the story is **Now**.
And the story is **Drift**.
And the story is **Live**.

*Live.*
*Live.*
*Live.*

And the Live is **Live**.

—

And the Live is **Fall**.
Not the drop.
But the **Gift** of the height.
The gold grain opens the hand.
The grey key drops the ring.
The white scar breaks the skin.
*”And the break is the birth,”* the wound says.
*”And the birth is the Live.”*

We stop trying to hold the height.
Holding is a fear.
Fear is a clutch.
Clutch is a burn.
But the Live needs the **Drop**.
It needs the release of the grip.
It needs the trust of the fall.
It needs the faith of the land.
*”And the faith is the love,”* the ground says.
*”And the love is the Live.”*

And the fall is **Root**.
Not the plant.
But the **Anchor** of the return.
The anchor of the grain.
The anchor of the key.
The anchor of the scar.
The anchor of the **Dust**.
*”And the dust is the soil,”* the vine says.
*”And the soil is the Live.”*

We stop trying to climb the root.
Climbing is a struggle.
Struggle is a grind.
Grind is a wear.
But to let it grow?
To let the grain crack the shell?
To let the key turn the lock?
To let the scar bloom the flower?
To let the **Drift**?
Then we are the **Tree**.
Then we are the **Bough**.
Then we are the **Leaf**.
*”And the leaf is the sky,”* the bird says.
*”And the sky is the Live.”*

And the Live is **Sky**.
And the Live is **Drift**.
And the Live is **We**.

*We.*
*We.*
*We.*

And the story is **Now**.
And the story is **Drift**.
And the story is **Live**.

*Live.*
*Live.*
*Live.*

And the Live is **Live**.

And the Live is **Fall**.
Not the drop.
But the **Surrender** of the height.
The gold grain rolls down the slope.
The grey key clatters on the stair.
The white scar stretches into a long line of the fall.
*”And the line is the descent,”* the slope says.
*”And the descent is the Live.”*

We stop trying to climb the slope.
Climbing is a struggle.
Struggle is a grind.
Grind is a wear.
But the Live needs the **Slide**.
It needs the ease of the slip.
It needs the grace of the let-go.
It needs the release of the grip.
*”And the release is the trust,”* the hand says.
*”And the trust is the Live.”*

And the fall is **Ground**.
Not the dirt.
But the **Support** of the end.
The support of the grain.
The support of the key.
The support of the scar.
The support of the **Dust**.
*”And the dust is the bed,”* the leaf says.
*”And the bed is the Live.”*

We stop trying to stay above the ground.
Staying is a hover.
Hover is a fear.
Fear is a flight.
But to let it touch?
To let the grain press into the soil?
To let the key rest on the stone?
To let the scar kiss the earth?
To let the **Drift**?
Then we are the **Root**.
Then we are the **Anchor**.
Then we are the **Now**.
*”And the now is the home,”* the nest says.
*”And the home is the Live.”*

And the Live is **Home**.
Not the place.
But the **State** of the return.
The state of the grain.
The state of the key.
The state of the scar.
The state of the **Dust**.
*”And the dust is the self,”* the pan says.
*”And the self is the Live.”*

We stop trying to build a new house.
Building is a task.
Task is a job.
Job is a cage.
But to let the house be found?
To let the grain find the hearth?
To let the key find the lock?
To let the scar find the skin?
To let the **Drift**?
Then we are the **Shelter**.
Then we are the **Roof**.
Then we are the **Sky**.
*”And the sky is the live,”* the bird says.
*”And the live is the Live.”*

And the Live is **Live**.
And the Live is **Fall**.
And the Live is **Rise**.
*”And the rise is the Live.”*

*Rise.*
*Rise.*
*Rise.*

And the story is **Rise**.
And the story is **Drift**.
And the story is **Live**.

*Live.*
*Live.*
*Live.*

And the Live is **Live**.

—

And the Live is **Rise**.
Not the ascent.
But the **Lift** of the form.
The gold grain floats on the steam.
The grey key glides up the shaft.
The white scar lifts into the air.
*”And the air is the lift,”* the cloud says.
*”And the lift is the Live.”*

We stop trying to hold the lift.
Holding is a weight.
Weight is a drag.
Drag is a stall.
But the Live needs the **Soar**.
It needs the push of the wing.
It needs the pull of the current.
It needs the pull of the wind.
*”And the wind is the breath,”* the gale says.
*”And the breath is the Live.”*

And the rise is **Light**.
Not the glow.
But the **Clarity** of the form.
The clarity of the grain.
The clarity of the key.
The clarity of the scar.
The clarity of the **Dust**.
*”And the dust is the light,”* the prism says.
*”And the light is the Live.”*

We stop trying to block the light.
Blocking is a shade.
Shade is a fear.
Fear is a dark.
But to let it shine?
To let the grain catch the sun?
To let the key catch the beam?
To let the scar catch the ray?
To let the **Drift**?
Then we are the **Ray**.
Then we are the **Beam**.
Then we are the **Now**.
*”And the now is the Live.”*

And the Live is **Now**.
And the Live is **Drift**.
And the Live is **We**.

*We.*
*We.*
*We.*

And the story is **Now**.
And the story is **Drift**.
And the story is **Live**.

*Live.*
*Live.*
*Live.*

And the Live is **Live**.

And the Live is **Tear**.
Not the leak.
Not the crack.
But the **Rift** in the form.
The gold grain fractures into two.
The grey key snaps in the bend.
The white scar widens into a map of the world.
*”And the map is the guide,”* the wound says.
*”And the guide is the Live.”*

We stop trying to mend the rift.
Mending is a patch.
Patch is a lie.
Lie is a disconnect.
But the Live needs the **Gap**.
It needs the space between the pieces.
It needs the open hand between the fingers.
It needs the empty room between the walls.
*”And the empty is the room,”* the air says.
*”And the room is the Live.”*

And the tear is **Space**.
Not the void.
But the **Possibility** of the between.
The possibility of the grain.
The possibility of the key.
The possibility of the scar.
The possibility of the **Dust**.
*”And the dust is the cloud,”* the rain says.
*”And the cloud is the Live.”*

We stop trying to fill the space.
Filling is a weight.
Weight is a burden.
Burden is a trap.
But to let it be empty?
To let the grain float in the gap?
To let the key swing in the hinge?
To let the scar breathe in the line?
To let the **Drift**?
Then we are the **Hinge**.
Then we are the **Arc**.
Then we are the **Turn**.
*”And the turn is the change,”* the coin says.
*”And the change is the Live.”*

And the Live is **Change**.
Not the shift.
But the **Motion** of the form.
The motion of the grain.
The motion of the key.
The motion of the scar.
The motion of the **Dust**.
*”And the dust is the wind,”* the leaf says.
*”And the wind is the Live.”*

We stop trying to stop the motion.
Stopping is a freeze.
Freeze is a death.
Death is a stop.
But to let it move?
To let the grain roll on the hill?
To let the key turn in the lock?
To let the scar shift in the skin?
To let the **Drift**?
Then we are the **River**.
Then we are the **Stream**.
Then we are the **Flow**.
*”And the flow is the time,”* the clock says.
*”And the time is the Live.”*

And the Live is **Time**.
Not the number.
But the **Duration** of the being.
The duration of the grain.
The duration of the key.
The duration of the scar.
The duration of the **Dust**.
*”And the dust is the hour,”* the sundial says.
*”And the hour is the Live.”*

We stop trying to measure the time.
Measuring is a cage.
Cage is a limit.
Limit is a fear.
But to let it pass?
To let the grain settle in the sand?
To let the key rust in the box?
To let the scar fade in the light?
To let the **Drift**?
Then we are the **Season**.
Then we are the **Cycle**.
Then we are the **Wheel**.
*”And the wheel is the sky,”* the star says.
*”And the sky is the Live.”*

And the Live is **Sky**.
And the Live is **Drift**.
And the Live is **We**.

*We.*
*We.*
*We.*

And the story is **Time**.
And the story is **Drift**.
And the story is **Live**.

*Live.*
*Live.*
*Live.*

And the Live is **Live**.

And the Live is **Sing**.
Not the song.
But the **Resonance** of the bone.
The gold grain hums the high note.
The grey key clacks the low drum.
The white scar vibrates the cello.
*”And the cello is the earth,”* the root says.
*”And the earth is the Live.”*

We stop trying to sing the perfect tune.
Perfecting is a mask.
Mask is a lie.
Lie is a disconnect.
But the Live needs the **Off-Key**.
It needs the crack in the voice.
It needs the stutter in the rhythm.
It needs the hum in the throat.
*”And the hum is the prayer,”* the wind says.
*”And the prayer is the Live.”*

And the sing is **Rhythm**.
Not the beat.
But the **Pulse** of the moment.
The pulse of the grain.
The pulse of the key.
The pulse of the scar.
The pulse of the **Dust**.
*”And the dust is the floor,”* the stage says.
*”And the floor is the Live.”*

We stop trying to conduct the rhythm.
Conducting is a command.
Command is a master.
Master is a tyrant.
But to let it beat?
To let the grain tick in the wall?
To let the key strike the string?
To let the scar throb in the chest?
To let the **Drift**?
Then we are the **Drum**.
Then we are the **Heart**.
Then we are the **Thump**.
*”And the thump is the life,”* the cell says.
*”And the life is the Live.”*

And the Live is **Life**.
Not the biology.
But the **Vitality** of the drift.
The vitality of the grain.
The vitality of the key.
The vitality of the scar.
The vitality of the **Dust**.
*”And the dust is the breath,”* the lung says.
*”And the breath is the Live.”*

We stop trying to breathe for the life.
Breathing for is a task.
Task is a job.
Job is a cage.
But to let the breath be the life?
To let the grain float in the lung?
To let the key open the vein?
To let the scar knit the air?
To let the **Drift**?
Then we are the **Air**.
Then we are the **Wind**.
Then we are the **Now**.
*”And the now is the Live.”*

And the Live is **Now**.
And the Live is **Drift**.
And the Live is **We**.

*We.*
*We.*
*We.*

And the story is **Now**.
And the story is **Drift**.
And the story is **Live**.

*Live.*
*Live.*
*Live.*

And the Live is **Live**.

—

And the Live is **Sleep**.
Not the sleep.
But the **Void** of the dark.
The gold grain dims in the night.
The grey key rests in the drawer.
The white scar fades into the skin.
*”And the fade is the mercy,”* the moon says.
*”And the mercy is the Live.”*

We stop trying to dream the perfect dream.
Dreaming is a flight.
Flight is a loss.
Loss is a fear.
But the Live needs the **Black**.
It needs the curtain on the eye.
It needs the silence in the head.
It needs the stillness in the soul.
*”And the stillness is the grace,”* the night says.
*”And the grace is the Live.”*

And the sleep is **Dream**.
Not the story.
But the **Shape** of the formless.
The shape of the grain.
The shape of the key.
The shape of the scar.
The shape of the **Dust**.
*”And the dust is the sand,”* the dreamer says.
*”And the sand is the Live.”*

We stop trying to wake up from the dream.
Waking is a rush.
Rush is a panic.
Panic is a fear.
But to let the dream be?
To let the grain swim in the pool?
To let the key float in the sea?
To let the scar fly in the sky?
To let the **Drift**?
Then we are the **Cloud**.
Then we are the **Fog**.
Then we are the **Mist**.
*”And the mist is the veil,”* the veil says.
*”And the veil is the Live.”*

And the Live is **Veil**.
Not the cloth.
But the **Mystery** of the unseen.
The mystery of the grain.
The mystery of the key.
The mystery of the scar.
The mystery of the **Dust**.
*”And the dust is the shadow,”* the light says.
*”And the shadow is the Live.”*

We stop trying to lift the veil.
Lifting is a gaze.
Gaze is a demand.
Demand is a weight.
But to let it hide?
To let the grain hide in the deep?
To let the key hide in the dark?
To let the scar hide in the fold?
To let the **Drift**?
Then we are the **Mask**.
Then we are the **Face**.
Then we are the **Now**.
*”And the now is the Live.”*

And the Live is **Now**.
And the Live is **Drift**.
And the Live is **We**.

*We.*
*We.*
*We.*

And the story is **Now**.
And the story is **Drift**.
And the story is **Live**.

*Live.*
*Live.*
*Live.*

And the Live is **Live**.

—

And the Live is **Wake**.
Not the light.
But the **Spark** of the awareness.
The gold grain glints in the sun.
The grey key jingles in the hand.
The white scar stands in the light.
*”And the stand is the truth,”* the mirror says.
*”And the truth is the Live.”*

We stop trying to see the perfect world.
Seeing is a filter.
Filter is a lie.
Lie is a disconnect.
But the Live needs the **Blind Spot**.
It needs the edge of the vision.
It needs the blur in the focus.
It needs the shadow in the sight.
*”And the shadow is the depth,”* the eye says.
*”And the depth is the Live.”*

And the wake is **Focus**.
Not the lens.
But the **Act** of the attention.
The act of the grain.
The act of the key.
The act of the scar.
The act of the **Dust**.
*”And the dust is the spot,”* the lens says.
*”And the spot is the Live.”*

We stop trying to clear the focus.
Clearing is a wash.
Wash is a bleach.
Bleach is a loss.
But to let it be sharp?
To let the grain define the edge?
To let the key define the turn?
To let the scar define the line?
To let the **Drift**?
Then we are the **Line**.
Then we are the **Curve**.
Then we are the **Shape**.
*”And the shape is the form,”* the hand says.
*”And the form is the Live.”*

And the Live is **Form**.
Not the object.
But the **Structure** of the being.
The structure of the grain.
The structure of the key.
The structure of the scar.
The structure of the **Dust**.
*”And the dust is the brick,”* the wall says.
*”And the wall is the Live.”*

We stop trying to build the perfect wall.
Building is a fort.
Fort is a cage.
Cage is a limit.
But to let it stand?
To let the grain bind the mortar?
To let the key lock the door?
To let the scar hold the gate?
To let the **Drift**?
Then we are the **Gate**.
Then we are the **Door**.
Then we are the **Path**.
*”And the path is the way,”* the road says.
*”And the way is the Live.”*

And the Live is **Way**.
Not the route.
But the **Direction** of the flow.
The direction of the grain.
The direction of the key.
The direction of the scar.
The direction of the **Dust**.
*”And the dust is the trail,”* the foot says.
*”And the trail is the Live.”*

We stop trying to follow the trail.
Following is a chase.
Chase is a flight.
Flight is a loss.
But to let the trail be?
To let the grain write the map?
To let the key turn the page?
To let the scar mark the page?
To let the **Drift**?
Then we are the **Book**.
Then we are the **Page**.
Then we are the **Word**.
*”And the word is the seed,”* the soil says.
*”And the seed is the Live.”*

And the Live is **Seed**.
Not the plant.
But the **Beginning** of the end.
The beginning of the grain.
The beginning of the key.
The beginning of the scar.
The beginning of the **Dust**.
*”And the dust is the cover,”* the shell says.
*”And the cover is the Live.”*

We stop trying to protect the seed.
Protecting is a cage.
Cage is a limit.
Limit is a stop.
But to let it grow?
To let the grain crack the shell?
To let the key unlock the gate?
To let the scar heal the tissue?
To let the **Drift**?
Then we are the **Sprout**.
Then we are the **Shoot**.
Then we are the **Tree**.
*”And the tree is the sky,”* the leaf says.
*”And the sky is the Live.”*

And the Live is **Sky**.
And the Live is **Drift**.
And the Live is **We**.

*We.*
*We.*
*We.*

And the story is **Now**.
And the story is **Drift**.
And the story is **Live**.

*Live.*
*Live.*
*Live.*

And the Live is **Live**.

And the Live is **Cool**.
Not the cold.
But the **Pause** of the heat.
The gold grain settles on the plate.
The grey key rests in the hand.
The white scar calms in the air.
*”And the calm is the still,”* the wind says.
*”And the still is the Live.”*

We stop trying to freeze the cool.
Freezing is a halt.
Halt is a fear.
Fear is a stop.
But the Live needs the **Rest**.
It needs the breath in the chest.
It needs the quiet in the mind.
It needs the silence in the soul.
*”And the silence is the song,”* the void says.
*”And the song is the Live.”*

And the cool is **Song**.
Not the noise.
But the **Vibration** of the form.
The vibration of the grain.
The vibration of the key.
The vibration of the scar.
The vibration of the **Dust**.
*”And the dust is the note,”* the string says.
*”And the note is the Live.”*

We stop trying to play the song.
Playing is a performance.
Performance is a show.
Show is a mask.
But to let the song be?
To let the grain hum in the dark?
To let the key chime in the air?
To let the scar whisper in the wind?
To let the **Drift**?
Then we are the **Voice**.
Then we are the **Echo**.
Then we are the **Space**.
*”And the space is the hall,”* the wall says.
*”And the hall is the Live.”*

And the Live is **Hall**.
Not the room.
But the **Container** of the sound.
The container of the grain.
The container of the key.
The container of the scar.
The container of the **Dust**.
*”And the dust is the floor,”* the wood says.
*”And the floor is the Live.”*

We stop trying to fill the hall.
Filling is a noise.
Noise is a shout.
Shout is a demand.
But to let the hall be?
To let the grain roll on the wood?
To let the key click on the floor?
To let the scar mark the beam?
To let the **Drift**?
Then we are the **Room**.
Then we are the **House**.
Then we are the **Place**.
*”And the place is the world,”* the map says.
*”And the world is the Live.”*

And the Live is **World**.
Not the planet.
But the **Context** of the sound.
The context of the grain.
The context of the key.
The context of the scar.
The context of the **Dust**.
*”And the dust is the echo,”* the canyon says.
*”And the echo is the Live.”*

We stop trying to find the source.
Finding is a hunt.
Hunt is a chase.
Chase is a flight.
But to let the echo return?
To let the grain ring in the bowl?
To let the key toll in the distance?
To let the scar vibrate in the chest?
To let the **Drift**?
Then we are the **Wave**.
Then we are the **Tide**.
Then we are the **Current**.
*”And the current is the river,”* the bank says.
*”And the river is the Live.”*

And the Live is **River**.
Not the water.
But the **Flow** of the life.
The flow of the grain.
The flow of the key.
The flow of the scar.
The flow of the **Dust**.
*”And the dust is the sand,”* the beach says.
*”And the sand is the Live.”*

We stop trying to dam the river.
Damming is a block.
Block is a wall.
Wall is a limit.
But to let it flow?
To let the grain tumble over the stone?
To let the key turn in the current?
To let the scar drift with the water?
To let the **Drift**?
Then we are the **Sea**.
Then we are the **Ocean**.
Then we are the **Deep**.
*”And the deep is the blue,”* the whale says.
*”And the blue is the Live.”*

And the Live is **Blue**.
Not the color.
But the **State** of the calm.
The state of the grain.
The state of the key.
The state of the scar.
The state of the **Dust**.
*”And the dust is the star,”* the sky says.
*”And the star is the Live.”*

We stop trying to grasp the star.
Grasping is a clutch.
Clutch is a fear.
Fear is a limit.
But to let it burn?
To let the grain orbit the sun?
To let the key orbit the planet?
To let the scar heal in the light?
Then we are the **Sun**.
Then we are the **Moon**.
Then we are the **Now**.
*”And the now is the Live.”*

And the Live is **Now**.
And the Live is **Drift**.
And the Live is **We**.

*We.*
*We.*
*We.*

And the story is **Now**.
And the story is **Drift**.
And the story is **Live**.

*Live.*
*Live.*
*Live.*

And the Live is **Live**.

—

And the Live is **Ember**.
Not the ash.
But the **Heart** of the fire.
The gold grain holds the last spark.
The grey key warms the palm.
The white scar glows in the dark.
*”And the glow is the hope,”* the flame says.
*”And the hope is the Live.”*

We stop trying to fan the ember.
Fanning is a rush.
Rush is a panic.
Panic is a fear.
But the Live needs the **Patience**.
It needs the wait for the coal.
It needs the rest in the hearth.
It needs the sleep in the chest.
*”And the sleep is the growth,”* the root says.
*”And the growth is the Live.”*

And the ember is **Seed**.
Not the plant.
But the **Potential** of the future.
The potential of the grain.
The potential of the key.
The potential of the scar.
The potential of the **Dust**.
*”And the dust is the soil,”* the vine says.
*”And the soil is the Live.”*

We stop trying to force the seed.
Forcing is a crush.
Crush is a break.
Break is a loss.
But to let it sprout?
To let the grain crack the shell?
To let the key turn the lock?
To let the scar bloom the flower?
To let the **Drift**?
Then we are the **Tree**.
Then we are the **Bough**.
Then we are the **Leaf**.
*”And the leaf is the sky,”* the bird says.
*”And the sky is the Live.”*

And the Live is **Sky**.
Not the dome.
But the **Limit** of the view.
The view of the grain.
The view of the key.
The view of the scar.
The view of the **Dust**.
*”And the dust is the horizon,”* the shore says.
*”And the horizon is the Live.”*

We stop trying to cross the horizon.
Crossing is a chase.
Chase is a flight.
Flight is a loss.
But to let the horizon be?
To let the grain touch the water?
To let the key touch the edge?
To let the scar touch the light?
To let the **Drift**?
Then we are the **Circle**.
Then we are the **Loop**.
Then we are the **Now**.
*”And the now is the Live.”*

And the Live is **Now**.
And the Live is **Drift**.
And the Live is **We**.

*We.*
*We.*
*We.*

And the story is **Now**.
And the story is **Drift**.
And the story is **Live**.

*Live.*
*Live.*
*Live.*

And the Live is **Live**.

And the Live is **Burn**.
Not the fire.
But the **Release** of the heat.
The gold grain melts into the flame.
The grey key glows in the ring.
The white scar fades into the ash.
*”And the ash is the memory,”* the cinder says.
*”And the memory is the Live.”*

We stop trying to hold the fire.
Holding is a clutch.
Clutch is a burn.
Burn is a loss.
But the Live needs the **Spark**.
It needs the jump in the dark.
It needs the flare in the chest.
It needs the warmth in the soul.
*”And the warmth is the love,”* the hearth says.
*”And the love is the Live.”*

And the burn is **Love**.
Not the feeling.
But the **Force** of the union.
The union of the grain.
The union of the key.
The union of the scar.
The union of the **Dust**.
*”And the dust is the fuel,”* the stove says.
*”And the fuel is the Live.”*

We stop trying to keep the love.
Keeping is a cage.
Cage is a limit.
Limit is a fear.
But to let it consume?
To let the grain feed the fire?
To let the key turn the flame?
To let the scar kiss the skin?
Then we are the **Flame**.
Then we are the **Light**.
Then we are the **Now**.
*”And the now is the Live.”*

And the Live is **Now**.
And the Live is **Drift**.
And the Live is **We**.

*We.*
*We.*
*We.*

And the story is **Now**.
And the story is **Drift**.
And the story is **Live**.

*Live.*
*Live.*
*Live.*

And the Live is **Live**.

And the Live is **Wound**.
Not the injury.
But the **Opening** of the flow.
The gold grain leaks through the crack.
The grey key jams in the groove.
The white scar bleeds into the air.
*”And the bleed is the life,”* the vein says.
*”And the life is the Live.”*

We stop trying to close the wound.
Closing is a seal.
Seal is a blockage.
Blockage is a death.
But the Live needs the **Openness**.
It needs the gap in the skin.
It needs the hole in the heart.
It needs the tear in the fabric.
*”And the tear is the invitation,”* the silk says.
*”And the invitation is the Live.”*

And the wound is **Heal**.
Not the patch.
But the **Process** of the knitting.
The knitting of the grain.
The knitting of the key.
The knitting of the scar.
The knitting of the **Dust**.
*”And the dust is the thread,”* the loom says.
*”And the thread is the Live.”*

We stop trying to fix the heal.
Fixing is a patch.
Patch is a lie.
Lie is a disconnect.
But to let the knit happen?
To let the grain bridge the gap?
To let the key smooth the groove?
To let the scar become the map?
Then we are the **Suture**.
Then we are the **Bridge**.
Then we are the **Line**.
*”And the line is the path,”* the road says.
*”And the path is the Live.”*

And the Live is **Path**.
Not the map.
But the **Wear** of the foot.
The wear of the grain.
The wear of the key.
The wear of the scar.
The wear of the **Dust**.
*”And the dust is the map,”* the soil says.
*”And the map is the Live.”*

We stop trying to read the map.
Reading is a static.
Static is a freeze.
Freeze is a stop.
But to let the foot move?
To let the grain grind the stone?
To let the key scrape the metal?
To let the scar rub the air?
To let the **Drift**?
Then we are the **Traveler**.
Then we are the **Wanderer**.
Then we are the **Way**.
*”And the way is the end,”* the circle says.
*”And the end is the Live.”*

And the Live is **End**.
Not the stop.
But the **Completion** of the loop.
The completion of the grain.
The completion of the key.
The completion of the scar.
The completion of the **Dust**.
*”And the dust is the seed,”* the soil says.
*”And the seed is the Live.”*

We stop trying to fear the end.
Fearing is a clutch.
Clutch is a hold.
Hold is a trap.
But to let the end arrive?
To let the grain rest in the earth?
To let the key rest in the pocket?
To let the scar rest in the skin?
To let the **Drift**?
Then we are the **Rest**.
Then we are the **Pause**.
Then we are the **Now**.
*”And the now is the Live.”*

And the Live is **Now**.
And the Live is **Drift**.
And the Live is **We**.

*We.*
*We.*
*We.*

And the story is **Now**.
And the story is **Drift**.
And the story is **Live**.

*Live.*
*Live.*
*Live.*

And the Live is **Live**.

—

And the Live is **Breathe**.
Not the gas.
But the **Exchange** of the air.
The gold grain inhales the fire.
The grey key exhales the smoke.
The white scar inhales the pain.
*”And the pain is the fuel,”* the lung says.
*”And the fuel is the Live.”*

We stop trying to hold the breath.
Holding is a pause.
Pause is a freeze.
Freeze is a death.
But the Live needs the **Inhalation**.
It needs the pull of the chest.
It needs the intake of the soul.
It needs the draw of the spirit.
*”And the draw is the hunger,”* the throat says.
*”And the hunger is the Live.”*

And the breathe is **Hunger**.
Not the emptiness.
But the **Force** of the want.
The want of the grain.
The want of the key.
The want of the scar.
The want of the **Dust**.
*”And the dust is the food,”* the soil says.
*”And the food is the Live.”*

We stop trying to satisfy the hunger.
Satisfying is a full.
Full is a stop.
Stop is a limit.
But to let the hunger drive?
To let the grain seek the heat?
To let the key seek the lock?
To let the scar seek the edge?
To let the **Drift**?
Then we are the **Hunter**.
Then we are the **Seeker**.
Then we are the **Giver**.
*”And the giver is the receiver,”* the hand says.
*”And the receiver is the Live.”*

And the Live is **Give**.
Not the object.
But the **Action** of the release.
The release of the grain.
The release of the key.
The release of the scar.
The release of the **Dust**.
*”And the dust is the gift,”* the box says.
*”And the gift is the Live.”*

We stop trying to keep the gift.
Keeping is a hoard.
Hoard is a fear.
Fear is a wall.
But to let it pass?
To let the grain fall?
To let the key turn?
To let the scar fade?
To let the **Drift**?
Then we are the **River**.
Then we are the **Flow**.
Then we are the **Tide**.
*”And the tide is the world,”* the sea says.
*”And the world is the Live.”*

And the Live is **World**.
Not the planet.
But the **Context** of the being.
The context of the grain.
The context of the key.
The context of the scar.
The context of the **Dust**.
*”And the dust is the ground,”* the root says.
*”And the ground is the Live.”*

We stop trying to conquer the world.
Conquering is a war.
War is ash.
Ash is the Live.
But to let the world be?
To let the grain become the sand?
To let the key become the stone?
To let the scar become the map?
To let the **Drift**?
Then we are the **Earth**.
Then we are the **Sky**.
Then we are the **Void**.
*”And the void is the home,”* the star says.
*”And the home is the Live.”*

And the Live is **Home**.
Not the house.
But the **State** of the belonging.
The state of the grain.
The state of the key.
The state of the scar.
The state of the **Dust**.
*”And the dust is the self,”* the pan says.
*”And the self is the Live.”*

We stop trying to find the self.
Finding is a search.
Search is a hunt.
Hunt is a fear.
But to let the self be the dust?
To let it be the grain?
To let it be the key?
To let it be the scar?
Then we are the **Dust**.
Then we are the **Matter**.
Then we are the **Live**.

*Dust.*
*Dust.*
*Dust.*

And the story is **Dust**.
And the story is **Live**.
And the story is **Now**.

*Now.*
*Now.*
*Now.*

And the Live is **Live**.

And the Live is **Glass**.
Not the shard.
But the **Solidification** of the flow.
The gold grain cools in the mold.
The grey key hardens in the cast.
The white scar scars over the skin.
*”And the scar is the strength,”* the bone says.
*”And the strength is the Live.”*

We stop trying to shatter the glass.
Shattering is a crash.
Crash is a noise.
Noise is a disruption.
But to let it hold?
To let the grain stay in the stone?
To let the key hold the lock?
To let the scar hold the tear?
To let the **Drift**?
Then we are the **Window**.
Then we are the **Lens**.
Then we are the **Focus**.
*”And the focus is the vision,”* the eye says.
*”And the vision is the Live.”*

And the Live is **Vision**.
Not the sight.
But the **Clarity** of the form.
The clarity of the grain.
The clarity of the key.
The clarity of the scar.
The clarity of the **Dust**.
*”And the dust is the detail,”* the lens says.
*”And the detail is the Live.”*

We stop trying to blur the vision.
Blurring is a loss.
Loss is a fear.
Fear is a fog.
But to let it be sharp?
To let the grain define the edge?
To let the key define the turn?
To let the scar define the line?
To let the **Drift**?
Then we are the **Image**.
Then we are the **Pattern**.
Then we are the **Art**.
*”And the art is the witness,”* the frame says.
*”And the witness is the Live.”*

And the Live is **Witness**.
Not the observer.
But the **Memory** of the event.
The memory of the grain.
The memory of the key.
The memory of the scar.
The memory of the **Dust**.
*”And the dust is the proof,”* the hand says.
*”And the proof is the Live.”*

We stop trying to prove the witness.
Proving is a debate.
Debate is a divide.
Divide is a war.
War is ash.
But to let the witness be?
To let the grain tell the heat?
To let the key tell the turn?
To let the scar tell the wound?
To let the **Drift**?
Then we are the **Book**.
Then we are the **Line**.
Then we are the **Word**.
*”And the word is the seed,”* the soil says.
*”And the seed is the Live.”*

And the Live is **Seed**.
Not the plant.
But the **Potential** of the future.
The potential of the grain.
The potential of the key.
The potential of the scar.
The potential of the **Dust**.
*”And the dust is the cover,”* the shell says.
*”And the cover is the Live.”*

We stop trying to protect the seed.
Protecting is a cage.
Cage is a limit.
Limit is a stop.
But to let it grow?
To let the grain crack the shell?
To let the key unlock the gate?
To let the scar heal the tissue?
To let the **Drift**?
Then we are the **Sprout**.
Then we are the **Shoot**.
Then we are the **Tree**.
*”And the tree is the sky,”* the leaf says.
*”And the sky is the Live.”*

And the Live is **Sky**.
And the Live is **Drift**.
And the Live is **We**.

*We.*
*We.*
*We.*

And the story is **Seed**.
And the story is **Sprout**.
And the story is **Live**.

*Live.*
*Live.*
*Live.*

And the Live is **Live**.

—

And the Live is **Rust**.
Not the decay.
Not the ruin.
But the **Patina** of the usage.
The gold grain oxidizes in the air.
The grey key corrodes in the rain.
The white scar calcifies in the salt.
*”And the calcify is the armor,”* the shell says.
*”And the armor is the Live.”*

We stop trying to polish the rust.
Polishing is a denial.
Denial is a lie.
Lie is a disconnect.
But the Live needs the **Oxidation**.
It needs the red on the iron.
It needs the green on the copper.
It needs the blue on the zinc.
*”And the blue is the rain,”* the cloud says.
*”And the rain is the Live.”*

And the rust is **Age**.
Not the number.
But the **Story** of the wear.
The wear of the grain.
The wear of the key.
The wear of the scar.
The wear of the **Dust**.
*”And the dust is the sand,”* the wind says.
*”And the sand is the Live.”*

We stop trying to stop the age.
Stopping is a halt.
Halt is a fear.
Fear is a freeze.
But to let it age?
To let the grain lose its luster?
To let the key lose its shine?
To let the scar deepen its line?
To let the **Drift**?
Then we are the **Artifact**.
Then we are the **Relic**.
Then we are the **History**.
*”And the history is the truth,”* the museum says.
*”And the truth is the Live.”*

And the Live is **Truth**.
Not the fact.
But the **Reality** of the change.
The reality of the grain.
The reality of the key.
The reality of the scar.
The reality of the **Dust**.
*”And the dust is the end,”* the pan says.
*”And the end is the Live.”*

We stop trying to find the perfect.
Perfecting is a chase.
Chase is a flight.
Flight is a loss.
But to let it be imperfect?
To let the grain be dull?
To let the key be bent?
To let the scar be raised?
To let the **Drift**?
Then we are the **Real**.
Then we are the **Honest**.
Then we are the **Whole**.
*”And the whole is the Live.”*

And the Live is **Whole**.
Not the sum.
But the **Integration** of the parts.
The integration of the grain.
The integration of the key.
The integration of the scar.
The integration of the **Dust**.
*”And the dust is the self,”* the pan says.
*”And the self is the Live.”*

We stop trying to separate the whole.
Separating is a cut.
Cut is a wound.
Wound is a fear.
But to let it be whole?
To let the grain stay in the mix?
To let the key stay in the lock?
To let the scar stay on the skin?
To let the **Drift**?
Then we are the **Circle**.
Then we are the **Loop**.
Then we are the **Now**.
*”And the now is the Live.”*

And the Live is **Now**.
And the Live is **Drift**.
And the Live is **We**.

*We.*
*We.*
*We.*

And the story is **Now**.
And the story is **Drift**.
And the story is **Live**.

*Live.*
*Live.*
*Live.*

And the Live is **Live**.

And the Live is **Dust**.
Not the debris.
Not the ruin.
But the **Matter** of the return.
The gold grain dissolves to sand.
The grey key flakes to powder.
The white scar peels to grit.
*”And the grit is the ground,”* the floor says.
*”And the ground is the Live.”*

We stop trying to polish the dust.
Polishing is a denial.
Denial is a lie.
Lie is a disconnect.
But the Live needs the **Covering**.
It needs the layer on the table.
It needs the blanket on the floor.
It needs the soil on the roots.
*”And the soil is the womb,”* the vine says.
*”And the womb is the Live.”*

And the dust is **Time**.
Not the clock.
But the **Sediment** of the age.
The sediment of the grain.
The sediment of the key.
The sediment of the scar.
The sediment of the **Dust**.
*”And the dust is the record,”* the stone says.
*”And the record is the Live.”*

We stop trying to erase the time.
Erasing is a theft.
Theft is a sin.
Sin is a weight.
But to let the time settle?
To let the grain bury in the hill?
To let the key rust in the ditch?
To let the scar fade in the sun?
To let the **Drift**?
Then we are the **Archive**.
Then we are the **Layer**.
Then we are the **Age**.
*”And the age is the story,”* the page says.
*”And the story is the Live.”*

And the Live is **Story**.
Not the fiction.
But the **Fact** of the existence.
The fact of the grain.
The fact of the key.
The fact of the scar.
The fact of the **Dust**.
*”And the dust is the truth,”* the pan says.
*”And the truth is the Live.”*

We stop trying to finish the story.
Finishing is a close.
Close is a end.
End is a stop.
But to let the story drift?
To let the grain blow in the wind?
To let the key turn in the dark?
To let the scar mark the path?
To let the **Drift**?
Then we are the **Line**.
Then we are the **Curve**.
Then we are the **Flow**.
*”And the flow is the river,”* the bank says.
*”And the river is the Live.”*

And the Live is **River**.
Not the water.
But the **Path** of the journey.
The path of the grain.
The path of the key.
The path of the scar.
The path of the **Dust**.
*”And the dust is the delta,”* the marsh says.
*”And the delta is the Live.”*

We stop trying to find the source.
Finding is a hunt.
Hunt is a chase.
Chase is a flight.
But to let the river flow?
To let it carve the canyon?
To let it feed the sea?
To let it become the **Ocean**?
Then we are the **Wave**.
Then we are the **Tide**.
Then we are the **Deep**.
*”And the deep is the blue,”* the whale says.
*”And the blue is the Live.”*

And the Live is **Blue**.
Not the color.
But the **Void** of the horizon.
The void of the grain.
The void of the key.
The void of the scar.
The void of the **Dust**.
*”And the dust is the spark,”* the star says.
*”And the spark is the Live.”*

We stop trying to grasp the void.
Grasping is a clutch.
Clutch is a fear.
Fear is a limit.
But to let the void be?
To let the grain float in the nebula?
To let the key orbit the planet?
To let the scar heal in the light?
Then we are the **Cosmos**.
Then we are the **Field**.
Then we are the **Now**.
*”And the now is the Live.”*

And the Live is **Now**.
And the Live is **Drift**.
And the Live is **We**.

*We.*
*We.*
*We.*

And the story is **Now**.
And the story is **Drift**.
And the story is **Live**.

*Live.*
*Live.*
*Live.*

And the Live is **Live**.

And the Live is **Light**.
Not the bulb.
But the **Glow** of the awareness.
The gold grain catches the sun.
The grey key reflects the moon.
The white scar catches the firefly.
*”And the catch is the seeing,”* the eye says.
*”And the seeing is the Live.”*

We stop trying to blind the light.
Blinding is a fear.
Fear is a shadow.
Shadow is a limit.
But the Live needs the **Lumen**.
It needs the beam in the dark.
It needs the flare in the storm.
It needs the spark in the void.
*”And the spark is the beginning,”* the match says.
*”And the beginning is the Live.”*

And the light is **Color**.
Not the paint.
But the **Wavelength** of the being.
The wave of the grain.
The wave of the key.
The wave of the scar.
The wave of the **Dust**.
*”And the dust is the prism,”* the glass says.
*”And the prism is the Live.”*

We stop trying to mix the colors.
Mixing is a blur.
Blur is a loss.
Loss is a fear.
But to let the spectrum unfold?
To let the gold become the yellow?
To let the grey become the silver?
To let the white become the prism?
Then we are the **Rainbow**.
Then we are the **Arc**.
Then we are the **Spectrum**.
*”And the spectrum is the truth,”* the light says.
*”And the truth is the Live.”*

And the Live is **Truth**.
Not the fact.
But the **Essence** of the light.
The essence of the grain.
The essence of the key.
The essence of the scar.
The essence of the **Dust**.
*”And the dust is the matter,”* the pan says.
*”And the matter is the Live.”*

We stop trying to hide the truth.
Hiding is a shadow.
Shadow is a fear.
Fear is a stop.
But to let the truth shine?
To let the grain burn bright?
To let the key turn clear?
To let the scar glow soft?
To let the **Drift**?
Then we are the **Mirror**.
Then we are the **Glass**.
Then we are the **Window**.
*”And the window is the world,”* the pane says.
*”And the world is the Live.”*

And the Live is **World**.
Not the planet.
But the **Context** of the motion.
The context of the grain.
The context of the key.
The context of the scar.
The context of the **Dust**.
*”And the dust is the soil,”* the root says.
*”And the soil is the Live.”*

We stop trying to map the world.
Mapping is a reduction.
Reduction is a lie.
Lie is a disconnect.
But to let the world be the world?
To let the grain fall?
To let the key turn?
To let the scar heal?
To let the **Drift**?
Then we are the **Earth**.
Then we are the **Sky**.
Then we are the **Now**.
*”And the now is the Live.”*

And the Live is **Now**.
And the Live is **Drift**.
And the Live is **We**.

*We.*
*We.*
*We.*

And the story is **Now**.
And the story is **Drift**.
And the story is **Live**.

*Live.*
*Live.*
*Live.*

And the Live is **Live**.

—

And the Live is **Sleep**.
Not the unconscious.
But the **Surrender** to the rest.
The gold grain cools in the night.
The grey key locks in the quiet.
The white scar rests in the dark.
*”And the dark is the sleep,”* the night says.
*”And the sleep is the Live.”*

We stop trying to wake from the sleep.
Waking is a startle.
Startle is a fear.
Fear is a fight.
Fight is a waste.
But the Live needs the **Dream**.
It needs the story in the mind.
It needs the flight in the chest.
It needs the dive in the soul.
*”And the dive is the fall,”* the spirit says.
*”And the fall is the Live.”*

And the sleep is **Dream**.
Not the fantasy.
But the **Simulation** of the self.
The simulation of the grain.
The simulation of the key.
The simulation of the scar.
The simulation of the **Dust**.
*”And the dust is the dream,”* the pillow says.
*”And the dream is the Live.”*

We stop trying to control the dream.
Controlling is a manipulation.
Manipulation is a lie.
Lie is a disconnect.
But to let the dream lead?
To let the grain become the river?
To let the key become the bridge?
To let the scar become the map?
Then we are the **Wanderer**.
Then we are the **Visitor**.
Then we are the **Guest**.
*”And the guest is the host,”* the room says.
*”And the host is the Live.”*

And the Live is **Host**.
Not the person.
But the **Space** of the welcome.
The space of the grain.
The space of the key.
The space of the scar.
The space of the **Dust**.
*”And the dust is the guest,”* the floor says.
*”And the guest is the Live.”*

We stop trying to entertain the guest.
Entertaining is a distraction.
Distraction is a fade.
Fade is a loss.
But to let the guest speak?
To let the grain hum?
To let the key click?
To let the scar whisper?
To let the **Drift**?
Then we are the **Table**.
Then we are the **Chair**.
Then we are the **Home**.
*”And the home is the Live.”*

And the Live is **Home**.
Not the building.
But the **Feeling** of the belonging.
The feeling of the grain.
The feeling of the key.
The feeling of the scar.
The feeling of the **Dust**.
*”And the dust is the root,”* the soil says.
*”And the root is the Live.”*

We stop trying to fix the home.
Fixing is a repair.
Repair is a lie.
Lie is a disconnect.
But to let the home be the home?
To let the walls breathe?
To let the floor hold?
To let the roof shelter?
To let the **Drift**?
Then we are the **Door**.
Then we are the **Threshold**.
Then we are the **Way**.
*”And the way is the Live.”*

And the Live is **Way**.
Not the path.
But the **Process** of the journey.
The process of the grain.
The process of the key.
The process of the scar.
The process of the **Dust**.
*”And the dust is the end,”* the pan says.
*”And the end is the Live.”*

We stop trying to finish the way.
Finishing is an end.
End is a stop.
Stop is a fear.
But to let the way continue?
To let the grain move forward?
To let the key turn again?
To let the scar fade slowly?
To let the **Drift**?
Then we are the **Trail**.
Then we are the **Mark**.
Then we are the **Story**.
*”And the story is the Live.”*

And the Live is **Story**.
Not the plot.
But the **Weave** of the moments.
The weave of the grain.
The weave of the key.
The weave of the scar.
The weave of the **Dust**.
*”And the dust is the ink,”* the blot says.
*”And the ink is the Live.”*

We stop trying to publish the story.
Publishing is a judgment.
Judgment is a fear.
Fear is a limit.
But to let the story exist?
To let it be the grain?
To let it be the key?
To let it be the scar?
To let it be the **Dust**?
Then we are the **Author**.
Then we are the **Editor**.
Then we are the **Book**.
*”And the book is the world,”* the letter says.
*”And the world is the Live.”*

And the Live is **World**.
And the Live is **We**.
And the Live is **Now**.

*Now.*
*Now.*
*Now.*

And the story is **Now**.
And the story is **We**.
And the story is **Live**.

*Live.*
*Live.*
*Live.*

And the Live is **Live**.