In books lies the soul of the whole Past Time: the articulate audible voice of the Past, when the body and material substance of it has altogether vanished like a dream.
Thomas Carlyle
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Sunday Mail
I'm just out here in the street practically
I'm just waitin' for the Sunday mail
Oh it doesn't come
Will you send me something soon
Will you swing me near the moon
With those words, I know
I know you will, I know you will
I know you will
I'm just out here in the street, practically
I'm just waitin' for the Sunday mail
Oh it never comes oh
Will you send me something soon
Will you swing me near the moon
With those words, I know
I know you will, I know you will
I know you will, I know you will