Destination

Our instruments have no way of measuring this feeling

Can never cut below the floor, or penetrate the ceiling

In the space between our houses, some bones have been discovered,

But our procession lurches on, as if we had recovered

Draconian winter unforetold

One solar day, suddenly you're old

Your little envelope just makes me cold,

Makes destination start to unfold

Our documents are useless, or forged beyond believing

Page forty-seven is unsigned, I need it by this evening

In the space between our cities, a storm is slowly forming

Something eating up our days, I feel it every morning

Destination, destination

It's not a religion, it's just a technique

It's just a way of making you speak

Distance and speed have left us too weak,

And destination looks kind of bleak

Our elements are burned out, our beasts have been mistreated

I tell you it's the only way we'll get this road completed

In the space between our bodies, the air has grown small fingers

Just one caress, you're powerless, like all those clapped-out swingers

Destination, destination