| Today Joseph is sitting alone, with occasional nods to the waitress
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| She tops off his cup while she’s snapping her gum, making her rounds on the
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| lunch shift
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| Counting out coins, he leaves them arranged, in neat lines and circles and arcs
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| She just stares at the tip that spells out her name and ideas are like stars
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| And yesterday pedaling down 4th Avenue, between the stalls and the bookshops
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| The sepia tones of a lost afternoon cradled a curio storefront
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| And inside the air was thick with the past, as the dust settled onto his heart
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| And here for a moment is every place in the world and ideas are like stars
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| They fall from the sky, they run round your head
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| They litter your sleep as they beckon
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| They’d teach you to fly without wires or thread
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| They promise if only you’d let them
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| For the language of longing never had words, so how did you speak from your
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| heart
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| Yet here is a box that swears it has heard that ideas are like stars
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| Tonight Joseph stood out in the yard, as Debussy played from the kitchen
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| Celestial companions `til mornings first lark, shone overhead and he listened
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| And who was that shadow there by the gate, who was that there standing guard
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| It was only loneliness, and loneliness waits, and ideas are like stars
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| Ideas are like stars |