Country air

I can't imagine anything that doesn't exist
I can suppress memories that seem to persist

At eight you're running through the backyard running
I play the coward here hiding at the back of the room All that country air informs the flow you're riding
I'm getting shoved into a box
That's looking more like a tomb

Lies can eat up your time until you've lost interest
The bar continually raised it can't be hit

You stopped running and accomplished something
Slowing down throwing out the rash parts
That became you
Can I make a call on an impulse?
This may be the only way
I can make it through

I can't imagine anything that doesn't exist
Look there can you see what I just did?