| 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
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| should go 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 |