In his heart lived stories he’s told no one

Stories he’s lived and stories he’s seen

He put these big stories into a small book

And on this cold winter morning

In this small coffee shop by the roadside

Overlooking a couple of people waiting for a bus

He opens his little book to tell his life

But he tells it like fairy tales

Distancing himself from the characters stewed in the lies he cooked

She isn’t listening

She’s shifting her looks every now and then

From the coke bottles on the table

To his lips

Hoping to get the opportunity

To eat unspoken words off his lips

While time machine lyrics travelling a gramophone in a nearby shop

Transports her attention into fantasies