There's a house on a hill in a country that's more beautiful than I.

In the house there's a staircase that leads to the attic that holds something more precious than I.

It's a box full of memories of you as a child.

It's a diary, it's an album and little trinkets you picked up on your way along life.

There are stones and pictures, truths and lies.

They are mistakes and anger, and a little sadness inside.

And in that house, on that hill there's the kitchen where you'd always reside.

There's no bowls just huge mugs and that telescope by the window you use to watch the tides.

You used to tell me you wish...