I showed him my notebook   The underside of my soul   Released in scribbles on pages   He smiled and held my hand      I knew that he would see   For he dreams of touching beauty, too   There has to be more than the work day      He's painting houses   He's painting houses for a while   I'm home to his canvas   Coming to life      I write in my notebook   With feeling that takes me by surprise   And thoughts that I don't know I have      They're hidden by useless facts   That I've compiled at the office where I work   Where there is no time for feeling anything      You see, I just work there   To finance my real life   That begins with scribbles on pages   And thoughts of how and when      Museums on Sundays   Whenever we, can we both go   And stay there for hours   Feeding our spirits      And beauty is still free   And beauty is not exclusive   And beauty is ours to touch and to know   To touch and know      Don't you think there's more, I really have to know?   Don't you think there's more to life?   Don't you think there's more, I really have to know?   Don't you think there's more to life?      Don't you think there's more to life?   Don't you think there's more to life?   Don't you think there's more to life?   And don't you think there's more to life?      Don't you think there's more to life?