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 have recovered

Draconian winter unforetold
One solar day, suddenly you're old
Your little envelope just makes me feel 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 feed it every morning
Destination, destination

It's not a religion, it's just a technique
It's just a way of making you speak
(When) 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