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
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's eating up our days
I feel it every morning
Draconian winter, unforetold
One solar day and suddenly you're old
Your dear envelope just makes me cold
Makes destination start to unfold
It's not a religion, it's just a technique
Just a way of making you speak
Distance and speed have left us too weak
And destination looks kind of bleak
Our elements are burnt out
Our beasts have been mistreated
I tell you it's the only way
We'll get this route completed
In the space between our bodies
The earth has grown small fingers
Just one caress, you're powerless
Like all those cat dog singers
Destination, destination
Destination, destination
Destination, destination