The Typist

A world, reading into your mind You want answers, solstice you may find You got the image, the entire world all laid out And for a moment your escape is made A broom to sweep away your doubts You might pause and wonder “Who created this? What are they like?” But the typist isn’t a god The typist is even more flawed Then the creator, who is you Who turned the words into the pictures Who turned the lyrics to a song The typist is a lonely man There are few achievements he can He doesn't know many friends His work only a bitter means to his ends He’s trapped in him cold room With a cold hardwood floor Although he keeps craving for more His chances fled right out the door But you are important You've got the imagination To turn the musings of my alienation Into a beautiful, living creation The typist will one day come and pass But your universe will always last You are the better person in every way And I know you’ll merge the worlds someday