There is no world.
There is no collection of objects following stiff rules. No big machine following a precisely ordered procedure. No concrete, no materials out of which all is made.
There are no things, only events. Ideas happening.
All is but words of a story being told by its Author. The music of the Grand Concert Master following His own score. Playing it His own way, living in the nuances, the tiny details of expression.
Bending the notes at whim, sometimes changing them altogether, as if to remind the audience, “It’s my score; I am the composer.