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 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
Destination, destination
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
Destination, destination
Destination, destination