Well I could make this desk an altar
If I hadn't filled up every last inch
And I could make this planner a plan
But I've booked it to the judgement day
And I could make this shroud a costume
But I haven't cut the eye-holes out of it
So I can't see past myself
I can't see past myself
And I haven't made room in my life
For empty space
But without it, there's no such thing as lace
And I could make this house a home
But it's cat shit up to the ceiling
Books and records crawling up the walls
Till I couldn't hope to extricate one
And I could sink back into my skull
But the internet's inside of it
Gnawing at the backs of my eyes
Clawing at the backs of my eyes
And I haven't made room in my life
For empty space
But without it, I am going to die in this place
And I think of the vaults
And all the tunnels underneath the city
And of the F-holes in the upright bass
And of the end-papers
The clear space circling the edited text
Like the ocean underneath the ocean
And I scream:
Rise ye dead from your hollow spaces
Take revenge on this business
Rise ye dead from your hollow spaces
And help me clean up your and my mess
Cause I haven't made room in my life
For empty space
But without it, damn all the human race