I am a troubled, hopeful soul - ny notes will bend but cannot fold. They wait forever behind blushes, for any chance to betray my troubled, hopeful tongue with words I barely dare to touch. They beg for chances to whisper I-love-yous, then they leave me speechless, with an empty head once more. I tell them "I want adventure in the great wide somewhere. I want adventure in the great wide anywhere". I made a promise to myself; I make one now to you as well. It's hard to write when you're really in love, but I'll try and tell enough. It's never really quite enough until it all becomes too much - for weeks on end my fingers never shut up, and then they leave me reachless, and drop things to the floor. They tell me "Don't want adventure in the great wide somewhere. We want adventure in the great wide somewhere else". They never shut up. It's hard to write when you're in love, because it's tough to tell tall tales about the kinds of pleasures that feel best when they're secrets. When I try to write it down my smile it looks just like a frown because it's a limited vocabulary that I dare to put on show, so my words all lie below where I want them to go, and my sentiment falls short of the places it ought to know.