Our clock — the one we bought off of Highway One, the shop at the edge of the world, the shop pulled into the ocean — has rounded the bend and played her song. The crickets are still chirping. The moon is still shining. Outside, the world is dusted in silver. Outside, the trees and the stones are getting colder and colder and colder.
Can we agree that pajamas are for puritans? Can we agree that 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 when we’re close enough to radiate, but not close enough to burn.
You know, like dancing.
Pajamas, my darling, only get in the way.