whistling softly in the distance A young man sits at the seat of a wooden chamber containing
Nothing more ttan a typewriter and his thoughts
He attempts to draft up a quick story but has trouble getting
His words out onto the paper. He begins his story:
"A young woman sat the boook store, her light blue typewriter
Seems to be itching to be written upon"
Here the boy ends his story,

If her walls could talk they'd say some great things. Her words built. I wouldn't be myself, I wouldn't be myself if I wasn't that guy. My heart is at ease knowing what was, my heart is at ease knowing what was meant for me. I will never miss me and what misses me was never meant for me. My heart is at ease knowing that what was meant for me will never miss me, and that what misses me was never meant for me.

If her walls could talk they'd say some great things. Her words built. I wouldn't be myself, I wouldn't be myself if I wasn't that guy. My heart is at ease knowing what was, my heart is at ease knowing what was meant for me. I will never miss me and what misses me was never meant for me. My heart is at ease knowing that what was meant for me will never miss me, and that what misses me was never meant for me.