He walks through the house of his past, hoping he'll find the right door, hoping he'll find the key.
As I stood on the lonely backroad, I'm sure I heard birds, kookaburras, laughing ...
I'm dreaming of a month of Sundays.
Her body begs to be taken away and put into a warm bed with the sheets pulled high, even though nothing can help now.
I'm drinking away the exam results that don't take me anywhere.
Jack reads too many books. He thinks we're going to drive all year and have great adventures.