When a story begins, anything is possible.
Over time, characters may make their entrances. Cause and effect will fall into line, and the window of magic and mystery will close. You will gradually become disillusioned with your book, and its ilk. Eventually, you will abandon the author and find another, fresher story. One which will rekindle that elusive, and subtle thing.. What any writer who knows anything will spend his life searching for.
But there, too is a threshold.. hidden far beneath the folds of ink, and bark, and pulp.. Further, even, reaching down into the sky of an unknown world.. And as surely as time will render pages cracked and yellow with age, so that relentless spark of human imagination will burn forever from your heart that vast, cloudy expanse, and drain the endless ocean dry.
Beware, ye reader, and yea, too, all writers of books.. lest you find a story of your own, and catch the licking tongues of flame that rise within. For, our lives are all tales. And our world, as others, shall burn.