Bogart - The Turning Game Lyrics

Different directions we seem to take
In a carton box shaped into a city
Failing to meet, in pieces we break
A puzzle of stories, to celebrate pity

I go to the left you turn on your right
Eyes on the floor, black-grey tiles
Separate bedrooms and pillows that bite
Leaving red scars, visible for miles

Different roads we seem to choose
For no good reason, of no good will
We're picking and picking an old healed bruise
Secretly hoping it can still make us feel alive or just caring

I go to the left you turn on your right
The walls are smiling, waiting for us
The end seems to come, no matter how hard we try
Each in his own way, as we fight to avoid the final crash

Then I'll go to Paris, free like a stray dog
You'll end up in Istanbul, a whirling dervish
Spinning and turning we're both right and wrong
Two absurd phrases that, when put together
They seem to make some sense