I showed him my notebook
The underside of my soul
Released in the scribbles of pages
He smiled and held my hand
I knew that he would never see
For he dreams of touching beauty, too
There has to be more than the work day
He’s painting houses
He’s painting houses for awhile
The home to his canvas
Coming to life
I write in my notebook
With feelings that takes me by surprise
And thoughts that I don’t know I have
They’re hidden by useless facts
That I’ve compiled at the office where I work
Where there is no time for feeling anything
You see, I just work there
To finance my real life
That begins with scribbles on pages
And thoughts of «how» and «when»
Museums on Sundays
Whenever we can both go
And stay there for hours
Feeding our spirits
Beauty is still free
Beauty is not exclusive
Beauty is ours to touch and to know
To touch and know
Don’t you think there’s more?
I really have to know
Don’t you think there’s more to life?
Don’t you think there’s more to life?