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 feel it every mo
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