Bonaduces Sara's Black Pyjamas
Sara made her first attempt to go out since the incident
and all our vigilance had been relaxed by time. She
shifted keys from hand to hand while she was
straightening a straight watchband. Then she seemed to
ask permission, so we complied. Candles burning down. The
clocks are all exhausted now from the weight of being
watched. And all those prior scenes, the stomach pumps,
the bleached-out sleeves, weren't as far away as we
thought. And we were failing to acknowledge what's so
obvious, all the signs we've seen before like Sara's
black pyjamas peeking out from clothes that she plucked
off of the bathroom floor. Suicide can be this subtle
thing that keeps burrowing through your routine, until
you're not eating and phones just ring themselves to
sleep. And now it's all becoming clear that any victory
we claimed this year was just us redefining death for our
relief. Candles burning down. The clocks are all
embarrassed now, by the weight they've been assigned.
Like when you made a tool of a turtle-shaped wading pool
and stripped all innocence from our lives. Chorus. And
I've called up every place that she would go, and nobody
is picking up the phone. But in the early morning hours
when ours starts to ring, it hits me what they might not
want to know.