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