I'm becoming my own dust collection. Clinging to all the bottles that I can. Take the turnpike East. I swear I can't feel anything. This body's like a landlocked state and I'm making headroom at the slowest rate. It's time I navigate towards the straight and narrow. I'm feeling shallow but I'm barely treading water. When will I be home? Or am I home? Because I find value in getting myself lost. I have trouble explaining myself to you. I'll take comfort at almost any cost. I'm feeling shallow, but I'm barely treading water. When will I be home? Or am I home?