Tara Jane O'Neil - Sunday Song lyrics

Of all the rooms in all the towns you end up here The space you've made won't keep you sane or even clear And the sun's gone into hiding, but the light is still around And the pages turn to mirrors, so you step out She stops behind a bar Sanded smooth by her own arm And there's talkers at the tables, weaving fictions in the sweaters One is writing her a letter and this one drives you mad Sitting in the pleasure at the bottom of a pool In an empty room Where no questions move by a perfect mood To rest the arm on, to hang a face from Watching for something good How would you know, when you're hiding out? Get out of your head