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