Coma (song)

You want mush. You don't want any talking back. A steady stream of praise is all that pleases you.

So I'll just hush. I won't put my shade on the facts. I care enough to say exactly what you want to hear.

I care enough to shut my mouth--and keep it shut.

I'll hum into my sleeve. I'll eat my hat. I care that much.

Keep the eyes bobbing. The head nodding. I don't need.

I don't need any talking back. I ate a book for lunch. I'll just hush.


I care that much.

Press Junket

The Tow Truck Driver was, by every indication, skilled and personable. He enjoyed his job and performed it with affable efficiency. Riding with him, your disabled vehicle close behind, the conversation isn't mandatory, but it does ensue with a sort of pleasant social inevitability.

Turns out he is happy. He loves his job. The pay is "shitty." There are no medical benefits. He's always being rushed from one distressed motorist to the next. But he loves it. He loves the simplicity of it. He loves helping people. His conversation reveals him to be a noble, hardworking individual. It also reveals him to be at the very apex of his potential. So he is happy.

You on the other hand fill your head with dreams, which really amount to the idea that you can do better, that you are meant for bigger. Add to that the nagging suspicion that you are not at the apex of your potential, that you are leaving something in the tank everyday. Fuel that should and could be burned pushing you to higher ground. It eats at you. Eventually, whether by pen or piano, it kills you. This is why Thom York said "Don't get any big ideas." They are, in several cases out of ten, poison.