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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.
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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 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.
|
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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
|
The Church |