F.E.E.L.I.N.G.C.A.L.L.E.D.L.O.V.E. Pulp

The room is cold
And has been like this for several months
If I close my eyes
I can visualise everything in it
Right down
Right down to the broken handle
On the third drawer down of the dressing table
And the world outside this room has also assumed a familiar shape
The same events shuffled in a slightly different order each day
Just like a modern shopping centre

And it's so cold
Yeah, it's so cold

What...
Is...
This...
Feeling called love?
Why me?
Why you?
Why here?
Why now?

It doesn't make no sense, no
It's not convenient, no
It doesn't fit my plans, no
It's something I don't understand, oh