| 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
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| 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 |