You’re my desert, the line between the skynnand where the world gets solidnnand willing to dividennI corner you in the bedroomnnI find you at the sinknnI picture you in the morningnnI reach for you in my sleepnn nnI was in love, with the sky it’s like a drugnnI was in love, with my window at twilightnn nnIn the back room of my memorynnLives a small boy stocking shelvesnnof numbered periodicals,nnand the dreams I don’t write downnngot a typist on the bottle,nnmy stock boy only twelvennand dozing in the showroomnnmy many other selvesnn nnI was love with the sound of it allnnI was in love, with not knowing, anything at allnn nnI was in love, with the sky it’s quite a highnnI was in love, with my window at twilightnnI was love with the sound of it allnI was in love, with not knowing, anything at all