vicarious

perhaps it (the untouchable all-comprehensible infamous life or time or state of existance etc..) is better to dwell alone. why is it we feel acomplished upon non-existance of sleep for reading? hollow pregnant romance novels (better yet, romance novels involving vampires) or significant works of cannon - no matter. i exist vicariously though memiors of those who claim misfittedness. i then rotate in my swivel chain to write my own personal memio of this personal nobody. i'll hand myself the ragged truth on a platter that will do no good unless used to end my life and shout that we're all simply blundering nobodies attempting to be beautiful and feign adventure.

will you carry me away on an eagle?

my adventures are composed in sweet invested books. i let the words write themselves on my face, scrawling across with each thought of attaining (and excusing life to attain) that insurmountable something.
a'gape. peace. red.
however, "first art will imitate life, then life will imitate art, then life will find its very meaning from the arts." - unknown
that is why memiors are so uncomplicatedly genious. they allow me contentment with my own mundane, for, if they can see the beauty (or at least sound poetic and profound when discussing life and death) then so can i.

right?