It's a high beam drive & I think of you sitting at home
Your dad's TV weeks stacked to the window
And before I knock I just catch your face
Washed in a panadol light
I'd let you know that I'd be here
That's not my style
& way all up & down the line
Standard time, standard time
White metal on a wet, black drive
They're all calendar days
But you try to break out
& that old best friend is a zamel's ad
Bleeding ink on wet pavement
Or blazing on a model's hand
& there's a kind of quiet
A fighter jet's applause
They're all saw-toothed fragments
Scattered in an empty hall
& I'm reminded of a rewinding cassette
As tyre rubber comes blooming around your legs
& I'm waking up & the sky is pure appliance white
A day as true as TV cop memory
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Lyrics submitted by Dan Cook.