Day after day, loves turn grey, like the skyn of a diyng man, night after night, we prentend it's all right, but I have grown older, you have grown colder, and nothing is very much fun any more. And I can feel, one of my turns coming on, I feel cold as a razor blade, tight as a tourniquet, dry as a funeral drum...
Run to the bedroom, on the suitcase on the left you will find my favorite axe, don't get so frightened it is just a basic phase, one of my bad days, would you like to watch tv ? Or get between the sheets ? Or contemplate the silent freeway ? Would you like something to eat ? Would you like to learn to fly ? Would you like to see me try ?
Would you like to call the cops ? Do you thing it¡s time I stopped ? Why are you running away ?
