We sang songs but never learned your words or melodies. (We’re moving on.) We ran far beyond the lights cast on these streets. (We’re standing up.) Dazed and tired, we’re still standing. Always anxious, somehow breathing. Never certain but still searching. You parked your car out on my lawn and came inside. I’m shaking off the sinking feeling in my gut and I am screaming “wake up.” Is this a dream or reality? When I wake will I still be asleep? Can I ever trust anything? I guess I’ll rest and just let it be. (Wake up.) Is there a way to get into it or should I try to get over it? Did we dream when we were skeletons or did we just wish for our skin?
“Has anybody ever told you how Tommy died? We were married for three years and five days, and I loved him. But for the last couple months, I just wasn’t into sex at all. It just felt like we were so different and I was depressed. Some of that is just me, some of it was he wanted me to have kids and I have a hard enough time taking care of myself. I don’t think that makes me a criminal.”
All this has happened before, and it will all happen again. But this time it happened in London. It happened on a quiet street in Bloomsbury. That corner house over there is the home of the Darling family. And Peter Pan chose this particular house because there were people here who believed in him.