THE SIT [Intro — almost spoken] Nobody lights anything. We already know how this room behaves when a person leaves their face. [Verse 1] The medium slumps like a coat slid off a chair, jaw unhooked, eyes open, nobody home in there. We don’t ask for thunder. We ask for a date, a debt, the joke he only told when the good plates came out. A knuckle hits the underside twice, then a third— not a code from a novel, just a stubborn little word. Her throat starts working on a voice that isn’t sized for the body that rented it. We all lean in, surprised how ordinary the first sentence is. A grocery list. A warning about the porch step. A name we almost missed because we wanted opera and got a man who still cares whether the back lock sticks in winter. That’s the skill: you don’t haul wonder into the room and call it proof. You sit. You shut up. You let the ugly detail through. [Pre-Chorus] If you came to be changed, you came overdressed. This is clerical work with a pulse in the chest. Ask clean. Ask once. Don’t decorate the ask— the second you perform it, the contact thins to ash. [Chorus] Give the mouth away. Don’t yank it back. Let the borrowed sentence finish on the track. Hold still, hold still, let the minute miss its mark— if you make it pretty, you put out the dark. [Verse 2] Trance isn’t travel. Trance is a hole you agree to be. You empty the attic and wait to see what uses the key. Some nights it’s nothing but spit and a stuttered “I’m fine.” Some nights the pitch drops and the room forgets the time. The sitter to her left keeps bargaining with air, wants pardon, wants a map, wants the dead to say they care in the exact phrasing grief already wrote at home. That’s not a session. That’s a person talking to their own. The real tell isn’t cold. It’s the grammar going strange, a habit in the vowels the living mouth can’t arrange. She scratches three numbers in the margin of the bill. Nobody packed a pen with that intent. The hand went still after, like a tool put down. We copy what it drew. If it’s fraud, it’s labor. If it’s true, it’s labor too. [Chorus] Give the mouth away. Don’t yank it back. Let the borrowed sentence finish on the track. Hold still, hold still, let the minute miss its mark— if you make it pretty, you put out the dark. [Bridge — half-time, then shove] Don’t you dare applaud. Don’t you dare take notes like this is a show you bought. Fuck the theater in your head that needs a grand goodbye. Damn the urge to ask “are you at peace” — they didn’t come to testify. This shit is a lease: a body loaned, a voice on loan, and the rent comes due the second you pretend you own the tongue that just arrived. [Verse 3] Coming back is worse than going. Pins in the feet, a taste like coins, the awful work of finding a heartbeat that answers to her name and not the one that used the throat. She asks what she said. We tell her half. We bury the quote that would follow her to breakfast and sit on the next week. A séance is a room that keeps what you were brave enough to seek and charges interest on the rest. So choose the question mean: not “do you love me still,” but “where did you hide the deed.” Not “give me a sign,” but “say the thing only you would know.” If the answer’s cheap, you staged it. If it costs, you let it go through you and out, then wash the table, pay the woman, leave. No aftermath speech. No claiming you were chosen to receive. The talent is the vacancy. The craft is the return. Everything else is hunger wearing a respectful concern. [Final Chorus — tighter, almost a command] Give the mouth away. Don’t yank it back. Let the borrowed sentence finish on the track. Hold still, hold still, let the clock forget the mark— if you make it yours, you murder the dark. [Outro — dry, after the chairs scrape] Count the people. Count them again. If the number matches what you walked in with, you can turn the lock. If it doesn’t, sit back down. You are not done being useful.
