I know you never will move until circumstances force you to. Then you'll gather the couple tools that you turn wine to water with…like your wallet, so stuffed with notes and drawings, all so rough. It's like Jackson Pollock threw up inside of your consciousness. And on and on and on, you'll settle for these things: you'll crawl up to the very borders of your dreams, just to fight invisible and arbitrary lines with an endless tide of these crude instruments. You possess gifts so rare, but you shake them like snowflakes from your hair, totally unaware. You just keep building walls, until all of your points of weakness become your only points of access. Chorus. Crude instruments from another time. Crude instruments, crude by design. Crude instruments, instructing you on what to do. Crude instruments from another time. Crude instruments you can defy. Crude instruments, but they're leading you. Crude instruments.