The Great Gatsby

"[Gatsby] shivered as he found out what a grotesque thing a rose is and how raw the sunlight was upon the scarcely created grass. A new world,  material without being real, where poor ghosts, breathing dreams like air, drifted fortuitously about..."

Maybe we're all dreamers until we become victims of our dreams,

all victims until we take our dreams like drugs- a necessity that might

 result in our own destruction, but surely worth the tragic joy ride.

Life is a thrill. Death is an idle brute.