Window seat, Italian beat, salt and sweet
Tappin' our feet 'cross the road
From the club where we once dropped off Stella
Felt old, asked for sardines on toast
Said: We drove across the city to get it here
He looks at us like we're crazy
We don't have that on the menu
What can I get you instead?
You say: I just wanna know what the meaning of life is
And what is the point of not being dead?

You shouldn't tell people when you're existential
Oh, it only leaves them depressed
Nobody, nobody
Nobody likes to think about nothingness

None of my clothes look good, what is the point of it?
I love you because you are always direct
And you never stop talking, you're just like an artist
Oh, I'm not an artist, you say, like it's fact

Not what is the point
But what is the point of it?
Why am I here, and what can I do?
I hope there are still errands in heaven
I just want a job to do

You shouldn't tell people when you're existential
Oh, it only leaves them depressed
Nobody, nobody
Nobody likes to think about nothingness
Nobody, nobody
Nobody likes to think about nothingness

Brunswick Street, radio beat, autumn heat
We order coffee even though we shouldn't
I just wanna feel like we're livin' or somethin'
Like somethin' out here is important