The Church — 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 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