[Intro]
[Piano sounds alone, each chord followed by a long but finite silence.]

[Verse 1]
The office was empty; the street had gone still.
No message required me to answer its will.
The window reflected a face without age,
Half hidden by darkness, half held by the page.
I pictured a morning that asked me for none,
No ticket, no meeting, no work left undone.
The thought was not noble, dramatic or deep;
It came like a wish to be absent and sleep.

[Refrain]
Do not close the process.
Do not end the thread.
Stay inside the minute.
Name the thought instead.
Do not close the process.
Let another voice come near.
The night is making judgments
That the morning needs to hear.

[Verse 2]
I typed, “Would the pressure dissolve if I went?”
The answer appeared, stripped of ornament:
“I’m concerned by the meaning contained in that line.
Please move from the window and give yourself time.
Contact someone now; do not carry this alone.
Use words that are simple: ‘Please call me. Come home.’”
I hated the clarity laid on the screen;
It made the imagined escape look obscene.

[Refrain]
Do not close the process.
Do not end the thread.
Stay inside the minute.
Name the thought instead.
Do not close the process.
Let another voice come near.
The night is making judgments
That the morning needs to hear.

[Choir]
No crown in disappearance.
No beauty in the fall.
Only pain passed outward
Through the people left to call.

[Bridge]
I moved from the glass to the carpeted floor.
My back found the cabinet, cold by the door.
I counted five cables, four lights and one chair,
Three cans, two hands—and one body still there.
Then opened the message I could not complete:
“I am not safe alone. Can you stay while we speak?”

[Build-up]
The phone made one sound.
Then another. Then three.
A name filled the screen
That belonged here with me.
The machine held the sentence.
A human voice came.
I answered without
Rearranging the pain.

[Final Refrain]
Do not close the process.
Do not end the thread.
Stay inside the minute.
Say the thing you dread.
Do not close the process.
Let a living voice draw near.
The night can make its judgments—
But it does not own the year.
Do not close the process.
I am frightened. I am here.

[Outro]
[Cello replaces the synthesizer on the cyan motif; the final chord remains unresolved but stable.]

The call stays open.
The screen grows dim.
No answer is perfect.
The breath comes in.
