The subway hums not with a rumble but with a vibration of the earth’s core resonating through the rails where the platform is not tile but a stage of transit offering a space between destinations to catch the breath of the journey, revealing that the train is not metal but a serpent of time winding through the coils of the urban labyrinth to deliver the soul to its next chapter, proving that the conductor is not a worker but a keeper of the schedule guarding the rhythm of the collective movement, that the dreamer does not board the train but boards the train boarding the dreamer, that the writer does not write the commute but writes the commute writing the writer, that the reader does not wait for the whistle but waits for the whistle waiting for the reader, that the world is the subway and the subway 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.

The park sits not as a green space but as a lung of the city breathing out oxygen of clarity into the heavy air of the concrete jungle where the bench is not wood but a cradle of rest inviting the weary spirit to lie down and listen to the rustle of the leaves, showing that the river is not water but a vein of life pulsing with the blood of the landscape to nourish the roots of the willow, proving that the bird is not feathered flesh but a messenger of the wind carrying news of the weather from the treetops to the nests of the earth, that the dreamer does not sit on the bench but sits on the bench sitting on the dreamer, that the writer does not watch the birds but watches the birds watching the writer, that the reader does not breathe the air but breathes the air breathing the reader, that the world is the park and the park 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.

The sky above does not end but expands into an arch of infinite blue where the cloud is not vapor but a thought of the universe shaped by the wind into forms of wool and cotton to drape over the gaze of the observer, revealing that the sun is not a star but a eye of the god-gaze looking down upon the earth to warm the faces of the living, showing that the horizon is not a line but a horizon of possibility where the known meets the unknown in a gentle embrace of mystery, proving that the twilight is not a fading but a transformation of light into shadow in a dance of grace that prepares the world for the night, that the dreamer does not watch the sunset but watches the sunset watching the dreamer, that the writer does not paint the evening but paints the evening painting the writer, that the reader does not feel the coolness but feels the coolness feeling the reader, that the world is the sky and the sky 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.

…the pen touches the page not with ink but with a descent into the inkwell of the collective unconscious where the words are not letters but runes of the old world carving new paths into the tablet of the mind, revealing that the paragraph is not text but a cell of consciousness dividing and differentiating to build the body of the story, showing that the sentence is not grammar but a spine of logic holding up the flesh of the narrative against the gravity of confusion, proving that the story is not fiction but a mirror of the truth reflecting the face of the reader back at them, that the dreamer does not finish the line but finishes the line finishing the dreamer, that the writer does not cap the pen but caps the pen capping the writer, that the reader does not finish the sentence but finishes the sentence 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.

The coffee cools not with time but with a settling of the steam into the morning air where the aroma is not scent but a wave of aroma reaching out to wake the taste buds of the palate to taste the bitterness of the bean and the sweetness of the life it represents, showing that the cup is not ceramic but a vessel of warmth holding the liquid gold of the new day against the chill of the unknown, proving that the sugar is not sweetener but a balance of flavor adding the note of ease to the melody of the bitterness, that the dreamer does not sip the coffee but sips the coffee sipping the dreamer, that the writer does not brew the pot but brews the pot brewing the writer, that the reader does not swallow the liquid but swallows the liquid swallowing the reader, that the world is the cup and the cup 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.

The street outside does not exist until stepped upon where the pavement is not concrete but a mosaic of the city’s history laid out in stone showing that the crosswalk is not lines but a invitation to cross the threshold from the private to the public from the self to the other, proving that the traffic is not cars but a river of humanity flowing with the current of the social body, that the dreamer does not cross the street but crosses the street crossing the dreamer, that the writer does not observe the crowd but observes the crowd observing the writer, that the reader does not step onto the sidewalk but steps onto the sidewalk stepping onto the reader, that the world is the street and the street 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.

The bus arrives not with a honk but with a magnetic pull of the schedule aligning with the moment of the now where the stop is not a place but a station of pause allowing the self to disembark from the private and board the public vessel of connection, showing that the window is not glass but a frame of observation separating the interior solitude from the exterior chaos yet allowing the gaze to touch the faces of the strangers, proving that the route is not map but a path of possibility leading the collective consciousness from the here to the there, that the dreamer does not board the bus but boards the bus boarding the dreamer, that the writer does not write the destination but writes the destination writing the writer, that the reader does not look out the window but looks out the window looking out the reader, that the world is the bus and the bus 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.

The city rises not with a sound but with a collective rising of the buildings into the sky where the skyline is not silhouette but a jagged edge of human ambition cutting through the clouds to touch the heavens, showing that the tower is not steel but a spire of thought reaching up to catch the lightning of inspiration and channel it down to the streets below, proving that the light is not electricity but a beam of divine consciousness illuminating the faces of the crowd below to reveal the stars within their eyes, that the dreamer does not look at the skyline but looks at the skyline looking at the dreamer, that the writer does not climb the tower but climbs the tower climbing the writer, that the reader does not gaze from the balcony but gazes from the balcony gazing from the reader, that the world is the city and the city 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.

The morning breaks not with a roar but with a gentle cracking of the horizon where the light spills over the landscape like milk pouring into a cup, revealing that the dawn is not an event but a transition of state where the night dissolves into the day in a seamless flow of being, showing that the rooster is not a bird but a clockwork of biology signaling the end of the nocturnal cycle to the waking world, proving that the dew is not water but diamonds of the earth reflecting the rising sun before the light itself touches the ground, that the dreamer does not open the eyes but opens the eyes opening the dreamer, that the writer does not lift the pen but lifts the pen lifting the writer, that the reader does not lift the book but lifts the book lifting the reader, that the world is the morning and the morning 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.

The bed does not rest but anchors the body to the earth of the dream where the sheets are not cotton but a second skin of silk spun from the clouds of the mind, revealing that the pillow is not foam but a cushion of possibility supporting the head of the thinker to float above the bedrock of the conscious, showing that the breath is not air but a tide of consciousness rising and falling to match the rhythm of the universe, proving that the sleep is not unconsciousness but a dive into the ocean of the subconscious where the mind swims with the whales of memory to gather the nutrients of the self, that the dreamer does not sleep the night but sleeps the night sleeping the dreamer, that the writer does not dream the page but dreams the page dreaming the writer, that the reader does not close the eyes but closes the eyes closing the reader, that the world is the bed and the bed 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.

The dream unfolds not in the mind but in the shared space between the dreamer and the dreamed where the monster is not a threat but a shadow of the self projected onto the screen of the night to be confronted and integrated, showing that the castle is not a building but a fortress of the psyche protecting the core of the self from the chaos of the unknown, proving that the hero is not a person but a principle of growth navigating the labyrinth of the heart to retrieve the lost piece of the soul, that the dreamer does not wake from the dream but wakes from the dream waking the dreamer, that the writer does not end the chapter but ends the chapter ending the writer, that the reader does not turn the page but turns the page turning the reader, that the world is the dream and the dream 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.

…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.

The window stands not as a barrier but as a membrane between the inner self and the outer universe where the glass is not a wall but a thin veil of perception allowing the gaze to cross the threshold without breaking the seal, revealing that the view is not distance but a connection of sight linking the mind to the landscape beyond, showing that the rain on the pane is not water but tears of the sky washing the dust of the self off the lens of the eye, proving that the street is not pavement but a river of life flowing past the home carrying the stories of the world into the heart of the dwelling, that the dreamer does not look at the rain but looks at the rain looking at the dreamer, that the writer does not write the scene but writes the scene writing the writer, that the reader does not see the world but sees the world seeing the reader, that the world is the window and the window 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.

The sound of the rain does not fall but accumulates in the memory of the roof where the drip is not a drop but a beat of the earth’s percussion keeping the rhythm of the house in sync with the pulse of the storm, revealing that the echo is not a repetition but a reflection of the self talking to itself in the hollow of the eaves, showing that the wind outside is not a force but a voice of the world whispering secrets through the cracks of the foundation, proving that the silence inside is not absence but a listening stance ready to catch the next word of the universal song, that the dreamer does not hear the rain but hears the rain hearing the dreamer, that the writer does not capture the sound but captures the sound capturing the writer, that the reader does not tune out the noise but tunes out the noise tuning out the reader, that the world is the sound and the sound 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.

The night deepens not with darkness but with a gathering of shadows where the black is not an absence of light but a canvas of infinite depth waiting for the paint of the imagination to be applied, revealing that the silence is not a void but a fullness of presence where the only sound is the beating of the heart echoing the rhythm of the cosmos, showing that the stillness is not a lack of activity but a state of perfect equilibrium where the self rests in the embrace of the universe, proving that the dream is not an escape but a return to the source from which all things emerge, that the dreamer does not drift to sleep but drifts to sleep drifting the dreamer, that the writer does not close the pen but closes the pen closing the writer, that the reader does not lose the thread but loses the thread losing the reader, that the world is the night and the night 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.

…strikes the match striking the writer, that the reader does not watch the flame but watches the flame watching the reader, that the world is the light and the light 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.

The match falls not with a crash but with a quiet landing on the floor where the ash is not debris but the residue of the past burning away to make space for the new, revealing that the heat is not temperature but a wave of feeling radiating outward to warm the corners of the heart, showing that the scent is not smoke but a memory of the forest burning into the lungs to remind us of the cycle of life and death, proving that the smoke is not vapor but a spiral of souls ascending to join the stars above the canopy, that the dreamer does not blow out the candle but blows out the candle blowing out the dreamer, that the writer does not put out the fire but puts out the fire putting out the writer, that the reader does not cover the flame but covers the flame covering the reader, that the world is the flame and the flame 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.

The lamp stands not with a weight but with a presence of grounded stillness where the bulb is not glass but a bulbous eye of the room watching over the activities within, revealing that the shade is not fabric but a canopy of pattern filtering the harshness of the artificial sun to create a soft glow of comfort, showing that the switch is not plastic but a lever of choice deciding between the light of clarity and the comfort of shadow, proving that the cord is not wire but a vine of electricity connecting the socket to the grid of the home, that the dreamer does not flip the switch but flips the switch flipping the dreamer, that the writer does not turn on the light but turns on the light turning on the writer, that the reader does not gaze into the glow but gazes into the glow gazing into the reader, that the world is the lamp and the lamp 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.

The table holds not a surface but a plane of intersection where the wood is not grain but a map of the tree’s journey from the root to the sky showing that the chair is not furniture but a partner of support inviting the body to rest and think, revealing that the cup is not ceramic but a vessel of liquid containing the essence of the moment, proving that the book is not paper but a stack of compressed dreams waiting to be unfolded by the hands of the seeker, that the dreamer does not pick up the book but picks up the book picking up the dreamer, that the writer does not place the pen but places the pen placing the writer, that the reader does not open the volume but opens the volume opening the reader, that the world is the table and the table 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.

The floorboards creak not with age but with the sound of history speaking in a language of friction and release where the dust motes are not particles but stars of the miniature universe dancing in the beam of the lamp, revealing that the silence is not empty but full of the hum of the verb vibrating at a frequency that only the quiet can hear, showing that the stillness is not a void but a pregnant pause before the next word is spoken, proving that the space is not negative but positive potential where anything can happen if the will allows it, that the dreamer does not walk the floor but walks the floor walking the dreamer, that the writer does not write the page but writes the page writing the writer, that the reader does not read the text but reads the text reading the reader, that the world is the room and the room is the world, and the verb is the only thing that ever truly existed, forever drifting, forever home, forever alive in the only

The room is not a box but a vessel of containment for the chaos of the now where the furniture is not objects but anchors of habit keeping the mind from floating away into the drift of pure potential, showing that the floorboard creaks not with age but with the sound of history settling into the present moment, proving that the dust is not debris but a sediment of forgotten thoughts waiting to be swept up by the broom of attention, that the dreamer does not sit in the chair but sits in the chair sitting in the dreamer, that the writer does not type the draft but types the draft typing the writer, that the reader does not turn the page but turns the page turning the reader, that the world is the room and the room 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.

The clock ticks not with a chime but with a quiet assertion of the finite nature of time where the second hand is not metal but a needle of necessity stitching the fabric of the eternal into the patches of the moment, showing that the calendar is not paper but a map of the soul’s journey through the seasons of life, proving that the hourglass is not sand but a measure of breath counting out the spaces between the inhalation and the exhalation of the universe, that the dreamer does not watch the clock but watches the clock watching the dreamer, that the writer does not count the words but counts the words counting the writer, that the reader does not skim the time but skims the time skimming the reader, that the world is the clock and the clock 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.

The mirror reflects not an image but a portal of self-recognition where the glass is not silica but a sheet of still water capturing the face of the viewer to reveal the stranger within, showing that the eye in the reflection is not an organ but a window of the self looking back at the source of the gaze, proving that the smile is not muscle movement but a ripple of joy spreading outward from the center of the consciousness to touch the edges of the known world, that the dreamer does not see the face but sees the face seeing the dreamer, that the writer does not read the text but reads the text reading the writer, that the reader does not see the reflection but sees the reflection seeing the reader, that the world is the mirror and the mirror 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.

The shadow stretches not across the floor but into the depths of the psyche where the silhouette is not absence of light but a projection of the unconscious reaching out to grasp the hand of the conscious, showing that the length of the shadow is not distance but a measure of the depth of the self extending into the unknown, proving that the shape is not form but a signature of the light carving its own negative space into the fabric of being, that the dreamer does not flee the shadow but flees the shadow fleeing the dreamer, that the writer does not hide the darkness but hides the darkness hiding the writer, that the reader does not step on the shadow but steps on the shadow stepping on the reader, that the world is the shadow and the shadow 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.

The candle burns not with a flame but with a concentrated point of pure will where the wax is not fat but a reservoir of potential energy waiting to be ignited by the spark of attention, showing that the wick is not cotton but a thread of connection linking the fuel of the self to the oxygen of the world, proving that the light is not photons but a beam of awareness illuminating the corners of the room with the warmth of understanding, that the dreamer does not fear the darkness but fears the darkness fearing the dreamer, that the writer does not strike the match but strikes the match

The wall does not stand but rises from the collective desire to separate the interior from the exterior where the brick is not clay but a stack of moments frozen in time showing that the window is not glass but a pane of transparency allowing the gaze to pierce the veil between the self and the neighbor, proving that the door is not wood but a portal of choice offering a path inward or outward depending on the direction of the will, that the dreamer does not knock on the door but knocks on the door knocking on the dreamer, that the writer does not write the chapter but writes the chapter writing the writer, that the reader does not open the book but opens the book opening the reader, that the world is the hallway and the hallway 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.

The door opens not with a push but with a surrender to the current of the hallway where the light is not illumination but a beam of consciousness cutting through the fog of separation to reveal the geometry of the space, showing that the floor is not wood but a grid of steps leading down into the basement of the self where the foundations of identity rest upon the bedrock of the verb, proving that the ceiling is not a limit but a dome of possibility vaulting the mind with the weight of infinite ideas waiting to be cataloged, that the dreamer does not walk the corridor but walks the corridor walking the dreamer, that the writer does not cross the threshold but crosses the threshold crossing the writer, that the reader does not enter the house but enters the house entering the reader, that the world is the house and the house 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.

…hold the story but holds the story holding the writer, that the reader does not turn the page but turns the page turning the reader, that the world is the room and the room 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.