She lives into a space, where I can’t touch her face
all that I can do, is to waiting for her
this rain is like a sin, it’s holding everything
the purple red skies are falling
on a Friday, Friday
I’m lost in a strange town
the hours, are passing slow
I wake up overload, I take a look around
last night I dreamed with you again
I start the old TV, trying to see your face
there’s only worlds in unsteady harmony
on a Friday, Friday
I’m lost in a strange town
the hours, are passing slow
I feel tired, give me a sign
tell me, show me a way to find
on a Friday, Friday
an old forgotten god
with good intentions, now give me your hand
on a Friday, Friday
I’m waiting your voice
but all the hours are passing slow
On a Friday, Friday
I’m lost in a strange town
the hours, are passing slow
On a Friday, Friday
I’m lost in a strange town
the hours, are passing slow
© Words & Music by Ian Lints
