Who determined the lines between fiction and life?
Who thought that it would be nice to take the things people want,
And transfer them to the pages in a novels spine?
Why don't we go searching for the next great advenure,
Walking under streetlamps in the company of good friends
Down a road that has no end?
Why is it the dectective thats expected to solve cases?
Why can't we all wear capes?
Why don't we talk in prose or meaninful dialouge
And act spontaneously?
Why do we disregard ugly truths and relish in beautful lies
Why are exciting and humerous situations so often discarded for the crude
When they should be praised
If we can imagine the science in fiction
Why dont we make it a reality
Why don''t we believe in love at first sight
Or that love can last a lifetime
If art imitates life
Then why aren't we all books waiting to be read
Paintings waiting to be viewed
The answer, i think, is whatever is real to you