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There's a white sheet here in front of me
A white sheet and a pen
Thinking about the lines that will appear about a stranger or a friend
When the muse is not very helpfull
and the notebook doesn't bring solace
Maybe the birds in the garden and their singing will leave a trace
Or the phonecall with the drummer
Maybe the row with the firstborn
the visit to my mom and dad, baby's tiny black dress, hardly worn
The sound of airplanes passing
a picture in a magazine
Why not pure imagination, happenings in places I've never been?
