(Verse 1) I found an old sketchbook this morning, Tucked behind a stack of things. Pages full of crossed-out characters, Coffee stains and ballpoint ink. Some were stories handed to me, Some were stories I began. Looking through those faded pages, I still recognized the hand. (Pre-Chorus) Funny what survives the years, What settles, what departs. Sometimes all that's left behind Are shelves and scattered parts. (Chorus) Nostalgic remembered sparks, Gathered through the years. Some arrived through borrowed stories, Some through projects started here. A sketch, a song, a scene, a line, A thought that left its mark. Still somehow helping light the way, Those nostalgic remembered sparks. (Verse 2) A paperback with a broken spine, A folder from another year. A scene I never quite finished writing, Yet somehow brought me here. I can't always trace the pathway, Or tell where every feeling starts. But I know they all contributed To these shelves and scattered parts. (Bridge) Sometimes it's not the work itself That comes back into view. It's the room, The season, The version of yourself That once connected to it too. (Final Chorus) Nostalgic remembered sparks, Still glowing after years. Some became my own creations, Some just helped me find the frontier. Not because they reached the end, Not because they stayed unchanged. But because they left something behind That still remains.
