Our clock — the one we bought off Highway one, the shop at the edge of the world, the shop pulled into the ocean — has rounded the bend, she’s played her song.
The crickets still chirp.
The moon still shines.
Outside, the world is covered in silver dust. Outside, the trees and the stones are getting colder and colder and colder.
Let’s agree that pajamas are for puritans. We are of this world. We were made to sleep with feathers. We were made for open windows. We were made to be together.
Ask the scientists. There is a temperature perfect for sleeping. It’s the temperature of you and me close enough to warm, but not close enough to burn.
Sort of like dancing.
Pajamas, my darling, only get in the way.