Hey guys,  I'm not much into books, writing or literature.  For no reason, this piece of dialogue pop into my head, images and sound.  I wrote it down, I'd like to have your thoughts...
Here what happened:

And he asked the dying, now bald-headed, stunted middle-aged man:
"Why do you live so much in your head?  Your imaginary world.  Why don't you spend more wisely the so little time you have left?"

To what he answered, piercing through his interlocutor's soul with his light-blued, still fully alive eyes:
-"It's useless, I know for sure.  If I've continued to live in this world at the expense of reality in which I bathe, it was because I still had faith of writing it; romance it, describe it: it's subtleties, intrigues, mysteries and dogmas..."

Looking far away through the window next to his bed, he continued:
"The real world, the real life, when you concentrate hard enough for long enough, affects us less than the one in our head, where the time ticks when you give it thoughts.  And unlike what you might think, this world isn't beautiful, it is not happy, nor white.  Moreover, at the paroxysm of this beauty of it's own, it's complexity: it is affected by the real world, real memories, real emotions.  Is that what entropy would be?  Sometimes I surprise myself thinking the real world is someone's mind."

Thoughts?  Sometimes I suddenly think of dialogues like this, but I don't know if it's worth writing it, put it together?
Thanks!