She's passed out behind the wheel with her car holding up a telephone pole. The car reeks of blood and liquor, but she's got it all under control. Every morning is a new headache. Her liver is swelling up. There's no room for her heart. She has no love for this hostile world. Her head rests against the nostalgic dashboard. She keeps a tally for every time the odometer resets. She's measuring the gap in her heart by Miles. And the steering wheel is a nice makeshift pillow, and maybe tonight she'll finally rest. She might be drunk but she won't be dictated by shapes and colors anymore. This left lane must turn left, but she will keep on going. But she's too out of it to see, and a delayed reaction spins her into a tree. She's says that she's in control, but I don't think she's referring to the telephone pole. You must turn left, you can't keep going this way. You can't keep measuring your pain in Miles. By her count, to this day, she's 820 miles away, but she hasn't moved on at all. She won't be dictated by shapes and colors anymore. This left lane must turrn left, and she's got to get away from here. Oh, you've got to get away from here.