From the album Chuck Timely & The Hourglass
This is about chasing a feeling you've already killed. The narrator mourns Joy's absence while describing all the ways he's made her impossible to reach—sobering up eliminates her, desperation repels her, the search itself becomes the obstacle. He's not looking for Joy. He's performing the search while systematically removing every condition she needs to exist.
Remember Joy? She's been gone a while / I'd see her more when I was younger than a mile
Joy is talked about like a person who left, but 'younger than a mile' admits she only existed in a state he's already outgrown. The grief is for something that can't return because he aged out of the requirements.
I sober up, she's nowhere to be seen / I'm looking up and down, side to side, in between
He names the exact mechanism of her disappearance—sobriety—then searches anyway. The frantic looking 'up and down, side to side' reads less like hope and more like proof he needs the search to fail. If he found her, he'd have to admit what brings her back.
She sees the world a little less black and white / Says, 'By the mornin', it'll be alright'
Joy promises relief by morning, which is exactly when sobriety returns and she vanishes. The comfort is time-stamped to expire. He wants the voice that tells him it'll be okay but refuses the state required to hear it.
Count your blessings, one by one / Who's that knockin' at my door? / Better be an angel, 4-4-4
The angel numbers feel like bargaining—if Joy shows up under the right conditions, maybe she's not contingent on the things he's trying to quit. But she never knocks. The door stays closed because the plea itself is the wrong frequency.
Could you come a little closer? / You're so far away
Switching 'won't you' to 'could you' by the end makes the question softer, more defeated. He's not sure she can anymore, even if she wanted to. The repetition stops sounding like a hook and starts sounding like someone talking to an empty room.
The song ends still asking Joy to come closer, which means it ends exactly where it started—stuck in a plea that can't be answered because the narrator won't change the terms. He wants her on his current conditions, but she only existed under the old ones. The repetition isn't hope. It's the sound of someone refusing to admit what they already know.