| And one day, we might think with ourselves
|
| And make our heaven, hell
|
| Saturated in a pallet that we’ll 'learn to love again'
|
| And I can’t move time or space
|
| And all my dreams lay stuck in the doorframe
|
| That I tried to sleepwalk my way through
|
| Instead of running away with you
|
| It’s quiet here when we shut the car doors
|
| And only then do we pretend that we’re not wanting for anything
|
| I’m slightly south, and very west
|
| And I want you to know that I’m alive right now
|
| And that feeling sorry was the last thing on our list
|
| I’m slightly south, and very west
|
| Straight from the lines in my hands
|
| I write the second best song in the world
|
| And it doesn’t change anyone or anything at all
|
| And born from the same thoughts
|
| I get shivers that form plots
|
| And I become the kindred that swallowed me whole as a kid
|
| It’s quiet here when we shut the car doors
|
| And only then do we pretend that we’re not wanting for anything
|
| I’m slightly south, and very west
|
| And I want you to know that I’m alive right now
|
| And that feeling sorry was the last thing on our list
|
| I’m slightly south, and very west
|
| With good vibes and gas station coffee
|
| With good riddance and even better company
|
| Where our hopes never die
|
| Where you can look them in the eye
|
| We burn our fire with sweet saudade
|
| And everything glows green with the stop lights
|
| And everything unfreezes like black ice
|
| And all the bridges we burn are paved with pixie dust
|
| And the whole damn world sings back with us
|
| And that feeling sorry was the last thing on my list
|
| I’m slightly south, and very west |