We can now see the light at the end of the tunnel. Is it an on-coming train? The happy light of the ever after?
It might, possibly, be the sun. Or maybe a funnel cloud of love and illumination. Or maybe it might just be the sneaking suspicion that all of humanity is not devoid of intelligent thought and compound-complex sentence structures. Maybe it's something like optimism.
Maybe it's an hallucinatory image of ourselves sitting in the cozy breakfast nook writing something that came out of our very own heads. Something we made up. Something strange and familiar. Something that makes us smile with its unpredictability. Something that scares us with its fierce insistence to be written.
Maybe it's just an idea. That would be novel.