Texty: Okkervil River. Unless It's Kicks.

What gives this mess some grace
Unless it's kicks, man
Unless it's fiction
Unless it's sweat or it's songs

What hits against this chest
Unless it's a sick man's hand
From some mid-level band
He's been driving too long

On a dark windless night
With the stereo on
With the towns flying by
And the ground getting soft

And the sound in the sky
Coming down from above
It surrounds you at times
And it's whispering, oh

What pulls your body down
That is quicksand
So we climb out quick, hand over hand
For your mouth's all filled up

What picks you up from down
Unless it's tricks, man
When I been fixed, I am convinced
That I will not get so broke up again

And on a seven day high
That heavenly song
Punches right through my mind
And pumps through my blood

And I know it's a lie
But I still give my love
And my heart's all alive
For your hands to pluck off, oh

What gives this mess some grace
Unless it's fictions
Unless it's licks, man
Unless it's lies or it's love

What breaks this heart the most
Is the ghost of some rock 'n' roll fan
Exploding up from the stands
With her heart opened up

And I wanna tell her, your love isn't lost
Say, my heart is still crossed
Scream, you're so wonderful
What a dream in the dark

About working so hard
About growing so stoned
Trying not to turn up
Trying not to believe in the light on your own
La, la, la, la, oh, oh, oh, oh