Hydrostatic

[Verse 1]
(A cappella) The number on the screen is C-four-ninety-two.
(A cappella) There's a scuff mark on the linoleum floor from a missing shoe.
(Instruments enter) The air is cold and smells like printer toner, stale and flat.
My posture's a perfect right angle, waiting on the plastic mat.

[Chorus]
This is the last cubic foot of air I give away.
This is the final apology I will never say.
Watch the quiet inversion layer start to break.
For my own hydrostatic sake.

[Verse 2]
The man behind the glass is chewing mint-flavored gum.
He taps his pen, the beat is off, my fingers feel so numb.
"Next," he says, a voice like static on an empty band.
And I watch the dust motes refract in the sunbeam on his hand.

[Chorus]
This is the last cubic foot of air I give away.
This is the final apology I will never say.
Watch the quiet inversion layer start to break.
For my own hydrostatic sake.

[Bridge]
Mama taught me how to be a ghost, a whisper in the hall.
How to make my shadow smaller so it wouldn't touch the wall.

[Outro]
The screen flashes C-five-hundred. My number's coming through.
And I'm taking all my atmosphere with me to the window, too.