In this story of a boy,
His name is as insignificant
As the author who penned his life.
And the actors are all playing their parts.
Does the author write the book?
Or is it the other way around?
He tried to be something sincere,
But settled for something he's not...
And we throw our words into the wind.
It's something that's been there before.
Perhaps we should keep them as dreams,
Resolving never to open our eyes.
So the boy documented his dream in an attempt to remember the names...
And as the next chapter begins,
Sincerety seems so far away.
Meaning seems so hard to grasp
When you're laying in bed, sleepless at 5AM.
Sleep seems more real than life,
And the books we read seem so familiar...

("remember me," he said,
"forget that we both don't exist.
reach out and touch, and realize that i'm more than a dream."
"or maybe we both are," she said, as she looked into his blue eyes.
she watched them drop and disintegrate,
as he struggled to find adequate words.
finally biting his tongue, he said,
"this can't be a dream. it seems too real.")