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Day after day,
Our love turns gray,
Like the skin on a dying man.
And night after night,
We pretend it's all right,
But I have grown older,
And you have grown colder,
And nothing is very much fun, anymore.
And I can feel,
One of all my turns coming on.
I feel,
Cold as a razor blade,
Tight as a tourniquet,
Dry as a funeral drum.

Run to the bedroom,
In the suitcase on the left,
You'll find my favorite axe.
Don't look so frightened,
This is just a passing phase,
One of my bad days.
Would you like to watch TV?
Or get between the sheets?
Or contemplate a silent freeway?
Would you like something to eat?
Would you like to learn to fly? -- Would ya?
Would you like to see me try?
Ooohh. No!
Would you like to call the cops?
Do you think it's time I stopped?
Why are you running away?

One of my turns, Pink Floyd