This Much Counts as One · Track 42 · middle
Donkey's Years
Donkey's Years — idiomatic — an absurdly long time; nobody has ever agreed how long. Volume: V. TIME. ANGLE: The only unit on this album nobody ever standardised, and the one everybody still uses. Everyone knows exactly how long it is and no two people mean the same span. Sing the elastic time of waiting for somebody — measured in an animal nobody bothered to time. Sing the person or animal inside the unit, never the definition.
No audio yet — generation pending.
Lyrics
You put the bare-root saplings in the dirt in '93. You said they'd take a little while to give us any shade. The almanac gave out a guess in standard solar weeks, But living things ignore the little schedules we made. The beast we bought to haul the stone is standing by the fence, Watching all the weather with an absolute indifference. The laboratory wants a number they can prove, But I am keeping time by how an animal refuses to move. How long is a promise? How long is a stubborn streak? You can't weigh it on a balance, you can't log it in a week. There is no official standard, no tick upon the gear, Just the sideways grinding of the jaw, year on unmapped year. The one chaotic ruler that the empire couldn't tame, The time it takes to finally call this dirt our home. They locked the meter in a vault so it would never bend. They standardized the timezones from the center to the edge. My brain gave up on counting when the calendar went numb, I just measure by the calluses that harden on my thumb. He’s out there in the thistle, coat matted with the burr, A monument to how the decades happen in a blur. The laboratory wants a number they can prove, But I am keeping time by how an animal refuses to move. How long is a promise? How long is a stubborn streak? You can't weigh it on a balance, you can't log it in a week. There is no official standard, no tick upon the gear, Just the sideways grinding of the jaw, year on unmapped year. The one chaotic ruler that the empire couldn't tame, The time it takes to finally call this dirt our home. Every other measurement was handed from the top. A magistrate who drew a line and told the world to stop. But this one is a runaway, a feral stretch of light. It belongs to anyone who waits out the night. The orchard is heavy now. No platinum bar. No ticking hum. Just the slow, sideways grind. We made it.