Sunday's pretty icons

There is no hole in which to hide
There is no plane to catch
No hope, tell them that's warm enough
No rent to a room that's quiet

A friend, I've known through six degrees
Cools down to where I hide
A friend, I've known through dreams and prayers
She comes back to my side

You're so far from wanting to talk
You're so far from wanting to say something good
Feel something good

The sea cries of loves of girls
The sea cries of boys
The storm, we are the both of us
Too close to ever love

Whiskey from the Island of Sund
Whiskey from the year you were born
Tastes like kidnap and ransom and exile

Somebody asked me what hell was like
Somebody asked me for help
Somebody asked me what hell was like
Lunging and happening, parting of souls

Every girl you ever admired
Every boy you ever desired
Every love you ever forgot
Every person that you despised is forgiven