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.