Would if my fingers could type like playing the keys of a piano. To play out thoughts of life like human tunes on paper. Sometimes I would like if thoughts could give rise to music, rather than to actions.

I like sometimes to enter into another world of adventures never written, a world of ink. Can pages of a book transcend reality, or do they only portray reality in new stories? Can the mind conceive of new? No, we only reflect what already is in new ways of expression. The subconscious is trying to process the passing by of life. It is trying to capture the fleeting moment that is gone forever.