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Living alone in a high little room |
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She can see to the street from her window |
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She likes it a lot but she just can't imagine it day after day |
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She's waiting to open the boxes of books and to put all the clothes where they should go |
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The walls may be bare, but she still can't decide if she's ready to stay |
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She wants to be open and ready for something to knock on her door |
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She's paying the rent but that doesn't keep her from hoping for more |
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You'd say she'd just come, but that's not the case |
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Can it really be years since she came to this place |
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Going to work on a slow-moving tram |
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Everyone needs to work for a living |
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She likes sitting here, she can plan, she can dream, and be taken away |
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Being a writer is what she might do if she lived in a world more forgiving |
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She works on a story, she works on a book or it could be a play |
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There's someone she knows who knows someone in publishing, |
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maybe she could |
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She'll call when she's finished the dialogue, maybe then, maybe he would |
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She says she will call, but at her own pace |
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Can it really be years since she came to this place |
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Waiting for signs and she knows there'll be signs |
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There'll be omens and so she is waiting |
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It may be tomorrow, it may be today, but it's happening soon |
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Out in the sunlight and under the streetlight and inside her room she is waiting |
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Watching the shift in the seasons, the wax and the wane of the moon |
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Watching the text on her mobile, he's asking her out for a drink |
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She wants to say yes but it's never that easy, she needs time to think |
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And summer is passed, and she still doesn't ring |
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Alone in her room, can it really be spring |