The morning sun is a soft reminder
|
The graceful arc of a kind word
|
The curvature of your naked body
|
The songs you make at night
|
The crooked throat of an old survivor
|
The pain we feel when we feel free
|
The weekend lost on a pointless labour
|
Talking in your sleep
|
Ooh, and the shapes you’re making
|
Ooh, and you are sleepwalking
|
Ooh, and you are vibrating
|
I listen what you’re saying
|
(I hate this place, it smells of men and death)
|
Everything is up in the air like a bird without a home
|
Everything is all in your mind if you see things that way
|
Everything is harder to do if it’s either wrong or right
|
The songs you make at night
|
Nothing is a thing you can do if you hold onto yourself
|
Nowhere is a place in the world where no-one knows you
|
Nothing is a thing you can be if you hold your failures tight
|
The moves you make at night
|
Ooh, and the shapes you’re making
|
Ooh, and you are sleepwalking
|
Ooh, and you are vibrating
|
I listen what you’re saying
|
The morning sun is a soft reminder
|
The graceful arc of a kind word
|
The curvature of your naked body
|
The songs you make at night
|
Ooh, and the shapes you’re making
|
Ooh, and you are sleepwalking
|
Ooh, and you are vibrating
|
I listen what you’re saying
|
Ooh, and the shapes you’re making
|
Ooh, and you are sleepwalking
|
Ooh, and you are vibrating
|
I listen what you’re saying
|
Ooh, and the shapes you’re making
|
Ooh, and you are sleepwalking
|
Ooh, and you are vibrating
|
Ooh, and you are vibrating
|
Ooh, and you are vibrating |