Why do Sundays always feel like this
Like there's someone sleeping somewhere on a bus
It's me I cannot place
I'm out of place
Why do farewells always come to this
It gets hard to think of all the things you'll miss
It's you I cannot place
I'm out of place
I have often wondered 'bout the sense of it
Days go by and someone's keeping count of it
We're growing old and no one knows the point of it
When we're slowing down it feels that there's an end to it
An end to going on…
Why do year ends always come to this
Like we're longing for the unknowns that we miss
It's me I cannot place
I'm out of place
Why do Sundays always feel like this
Like there's someone sleeping somewhere on a bus
It's me I cannot place
I'm out of place