They say absence makes the heart grow fonder
I think habit does the same, too
Today I sit here in a city on the hillside
Reading, writing, deciphering the fantastic symbols our books contain
Every day I listen to the voices on the bus
Watch the faces all the while
There is a whole host of information flooding my senses
I need to get it out of my mind
Focus on my own
Plough it through
The sun sets on the West
The moon rises to the East
While I enjoy conversations alongside the river
The light playing down on on the grass
Guitars are playing
Mocking my altogether ordinary state
I exist, as a shadow of my imagination
My imagination is fertile
The rhythms of the splashing water
The beat of the tram running on the bridge
The birdsong up there in the air
The cry of the baby in the hall
Stars clear in the still night sky
Today I live here by the hillside
Tomorrow I may not
There is a whole lot to do
Before my corpse begins to rot.
But what tiredness is this
Which grips me every now and then
I have no use for this habit of mine
I must shine
I must be seen
Not as the dull stone that was used to polish the gem
Who willl polish me
This rugged stone with the soft inside
Sunday, Monday, and so on
There are seven of these crazy days
On some the sky speaks volumes
On others it is still
I have no use for tiredness
Tomorrow might be the day
Tonight might be the night
So stay awake
And plough it through
Write another worksong
Swing to the mood
Move to the beat
Plough it through.
I think habit does the same, too
Today I sit here in a city on the hillside
Reading, writing, deciphering the fantastic symbols our books contain
Every day I listen to the voices on the bus
Watch the faces all the while
There is a whole host of information flooding my senses
I need to get it out of my mind
Focus on my own
Plough it through
The sun sets on the West
The moon rises to the East
While I enjoy conversations alongside the river
The light playing down on on the grass
Guitars are playing
Mocking my altogether ordinary state
I exist, as a shadow of my imagination
My imagination is fertile
The rhythms of the splashing water
The beat of the tram running on the bridge
The birdsong up there in the air
The cry of the baby in the hall
Stars clear in the still night sky
Today I live here by the hillside
Tomorrow I may not
There is a whole lot to do
Before my corpse begins to rot.
But what tiredness is this
Which grips me every now and then
I have no use for this habit of mine
I must shine
I must be seen
Not as the dull stone that was used to polish the gem
Who willl polish me
This rugged stone with the soft inside
Sunday, Monday, and so on
There are seven of these crazy days
On some the sky speaks volumes
On others it is still
I have no use for tiredness
Tomorrow might be the day
Tonight might be the night
So stay awake
And plough it through
Write another worksong
Swing to the mood
Move to the beat
Plough it through.
