The characters in the songs of The Olms are held at arm's length by an unaccommodating world and a mass of people who are reluctant to let them linger, or even to eat the discarded crusts from a devoured pizza. They are left out there on the other sides of windows, not in the cold, but in the chilly nights when you can do without a jacket, but it had been a bad choice to have gone out without one. It's being hinted that they're less than wanted. They have rejections coming out their ears and they're struggling to pick up any kind of steam that's going to amount to anything.
Pete Yorn and J.D. King have created a cadre of people who are down in the mouth, slipping around and bumping into things - knocking trophies and decorative dishes off of the mantle. It could just be that they've been sucking on too much shitty wine, or it could be all the shots to the gut, all of the tripwires and bottoming out that they've had to endure.
They've been the victims all their lives, tricked into their consolation brackets, having to win twice as many times to make up for the losses that they've suffered. They are awkward beings in this strange American dream, where it seems that they're all living rurally, taken in by the small town vibes, where people go just to lick their wounds and keep as weird as they want to be, trying to make sense of the potshots and the empty feelings that they have to cozy up to at night. They'll take what they can get and their bellyaches will sound like their only preservation.