You've been feeling like an axle
On a car that you don't trust
You no longer want the journey
But you tell yourself you must
You plug it in to find the reason you do it for
'Till the strings start scraping
Sounds are shaping
Sending out their chill
Until the air is shaking
And the movement's making
Lines blur at their will
Everything is still
Fredericksburg's not too far away
Heading down i-95
Yeah, but Sundays got you crawling
Slow enough to check your pulse
Time zones stop the phone calls
You know (too well) how that feels
Waitress with 'too much' eye makeup
Brings you your' eight-buck meal
You could almost bet
The air's so wet you'd swear
It oughta spill
Flies buzz 'round the streetlights
You've got nothing but time to kill
Everything is still
