8 blocks away would put you at the watertowers from my place,
What's the difference when you calculate,
by crunching numbers with crunched up eyelids?

Twenty-six hundred miles is 45 hours.
I tried to count the space in a million yellow dashed lines, and my gas tank's just empty.
I don't have the balls, or the where-with-all, or the cash to fill it again,
So I guess it's best I stick around the house.

Measure my days and metered my years in fear and muscle tension,
Meals and the beds that I slept in!
Tried to give a few decent gifts and scribbled a few things off the list,
but it still goes something like this.

Clean your desk,
Write your ex,
Do the dishes and your taxes,
Throw the shit you don't need away,
Call the airline 'bout the fast food scam,
Write to Adam,
Tape for Craig,
Throw the beer bottles and the cans away,
Mix some dirt,
Underline WORK!

There's never enough time, never enough time.
We don't have all the hands we need -
not enough you's or me's to be all the places that we want to.
There's never enough time, never enough time.
I'll siphon these anxieties onto to-do lists
and fidgets and things and things and things...