Our [bad word] 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 [bad word] 
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