Life experience with a side of books

The dry crisp pages of books take the moisture from my fingers and send strange signals to my nerves, meanwhile they fill my head with the hollow ideas of someone else.

The halls of academia are corporate and showered in overpowered lcd's, the congregations of students are vulgar and adorned with labels, and I am trapped in a curling lip of a documentation.

The stacks of books surrounding me in the mid day sun used to give me the impression that I was adding depth to my soul, but I was never more alive then when the sea took me under the midnight moon, 16 fathoms into darkness.

A sense of accomplishment used to wash over me in these halls and classrooms, but I never felt more proud when I could ask a man in Moscow under an amber streetlight warping the snow if I could have a cigarette.

I know only what I have done, and nothing else.