Somehow I expect my life
To look different from the way it is
Can’t form a picture of how it would be
I’d recognize it and it isn’t this
Pictures clutter up the walls
All I want to see crammed side by side
But I can’t really bring myself to say
I need more walls in my life
Chorus:
Is the way I live a fingerprint
Indelible style, carried on dust
Transforming each place with the air I breathe?
No shiny books on table tops
Just well-worn tomes on shelves stuffed to the gills
No elegant desk with silver-framed photographs
Just a cluttered space stacked with bills
Makeshift furniture, odds and ends
A thrown-together quality to all I own
But without the permanently transitory
I wonder if the place would still feel like home
chorus
A towel as curtain, no dresser to speak of
The wine shares space with a hat or two
If I were older or if I were richer
Would that still be true
Somehow I expect my life
Will always look the same
The only thing left to answer
Will I look at it with respect or shame?
chorus
