I used to lie between cool, clean sheets at night after I'd had a

Host: The room was small, its walls painted with the soft amber light of a dying streetlamp. A window was open, the curtains breathing with the wind, carrying the faint smell of wet trees and distant rain. Somewhere outside, a dog barked, a train murmured, and the city hummed like a half-forgotten memory.

Jack lay on the old sofa, one arm over his eyes, his shirt collar open. Jeeny sat on the floor, cross-legged near the window, her hands cupped around a mug of cooling tea. The only light in the room came from a single lamp, its shade cracked, throwing shadows that moved like slow ghosts on the wall.

The night felt clean, and heavy — the kind of night that asks for confessions.

Jeeny: “Frances Farmer once said… ‘I used to lie between cool, clean sheets at night after I’d had a bath, after I had washed my hair and scrubbed my knuckles and finger-nails and teeth. Then I could lie quite still in the dark with my face to the window with the trees in it, and talk to God.’”

Jack: (without looking up) “That sounds like someone trying to remember what peace felt like.”

Jeeny: “It sounds like someone trying to remember innocence.”

Jack: “Same thing.”

Host: The wind shifted, and the curtains fluttered. The faint smell of pine crept into the room. For a moment, it was as if the world outside — wet, cold, enormous — had come to listen.

Jeeny: “She was so young when she said that, Jack. Before the world broke her. Before the hospitals, the headlines, the cruelty. Can you imagine that — lying there, clean and small, just… talking to God?”

Jack: “No. I stopped talking to Him when I realized He doesn’t answer.”

Jeeny: “Maybe He does. Just not in words.”

Jack: “Then He’s a lousy conversationalist.”

Jeeny: (smiles faintly) “You sound like someone who misses talking to Him.”

Jack: (sits up, takes a drag from his cigarette) “No. I just miss believing there was someone to listen.”

Host: The smoke curled upward, catching the lamp light — a fragile, glowing spiral that dissolved before reaching the ceiling. Jeeny watched it, her eyes soft, as though watching faith take a physical shape and vanish in front of her.

Jeeny: “You know, what I love about that quote isn’t the God part. It’s the clean sheets, the ritual. She was describing a kind of holiness that had nothing to do with religion. It was about purity through preparation. Like — if you washed away the world carefully enough, maybe you could find something sacred underneath.”

Jack: “Or maybe that’s just control. A desperate way to feel clean when the world’s covered in dirt.”

Jeeny: “But maybe control was all she had. Maybe that little nightly ritual was her way of surviving herself.”

Jack: “And look how long it worked.”

Jeeny: “That’s not fair.”

Jack: “It’s the truth. Frances Farmer was brilliance and tragedy stitched together. She tried to talk to God, and the world called her mad for it.”

Jeeny: “Maybe she wasn’t mad. Maybe she was just… too awake for a world that preferred to sleep.”

Host: The lamp flickered. Jack’s face, sharp and shadowed, softened under the light — a flicker of weariness crossing it like a cloud moving across the moon.

Jack: “You ever do that?”

Jeeny: “Do what?”

Jack: “Lie still at night, like that. Talk to something — someone — even if you don’t believe they’re listening.”

Jeeny: (quietly) “Yes.”

Jack: “Who do you talk to?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes my mother. Sometimes the air. Sometimes… myself. I think maybe that’s what prayer really is — a way of holding yourself until the world softens.”

Jack: “I don’t pray. I just wait for sleep.”

Jeeny: “That’s your kind of prayer, then. Waiting to forget.”

Host: The rain began again, softly tapping the window, small and rhythmic. The sound filled the space between their words — a fragile melody of repetition, of cleansing, of persistence.

Jack: “You talk about Farmer like she was a saint.”

Jeeny: “No. Like she was a mirror. The kind of person who burns because she feels everything too much. You know, she once said she didn’t believe in happiness — just moments of grace.”

Jack: “Moments of grace don’t last.”

Jeeny: “Neither does pain.”

Jack: “Tell that to her. Electroshock, institutions, forgotten by the same people who called her a genius.”

Jeeny: “And still, in her letters, she wrote about the trees outside her window. About the way the light hit the leaves. Even after everything, she could still see beauty. That’s strength, Jack. Not denial — survival.”

Jack: “Or delusion.”

Jeeny: “Does it matter? If the delusion gives you one more reason to wake up tomorrow?”

Host: Jack exhaled, the sound heavy but human. The smoke mixed with the faint rainlight, blurring the air around him. Jeeny turned back to the window, pressing her palm against the glass, tracing the raindrops as they fell.

Jeeny: “When I was a kid, I used to do that too. After a bath. After brushing my teeth. I’d lie there, face to the window, and talk to whoever was out there listening. I never called it God, but it felt like something. Something kind.”

Jack: “And what happened?”

Jeeny: “Life. Noise. Work. Deadlines. The kind of world that convinces you stillness is a waste of time.”

Jack: “You grew up.”

Jeeny: “No. I just got tired.”

Host: The clock ticked, slow and certain. The sound was steady, like a reminder that time keeps its promises — to move, to change, to erase.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what this quote is about. Not God. Not cleanliness. Just… trying to feel untouched by the day, even if it’s only for a few minutes before sleep.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The illusion of peace — brief, fragile, precious.”

Jack: “And you think she really found it?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. But she kept looking. That’s the point. You keep washing your hands even if they’ll get dirty again.”

Host: A train horn sounded faintly in the distance — long, mournful, almost tender. The rain had stopped, but the air still shimmered with its echo.

Jack: “I envy her a little. That version of her — clean, quiet, talking to the dark. I can’t remember the last time I felt that kind of stillness.”

Jeeny: “Then start small. Wash your hands. Turn off your phone. Lie still. You don’t need to believe in God to talk to something beyond yourself.”

Jack: “And what do I say?”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Say whatever hurts. The silence can handle it.”

Host: Jack leaned back, his eyes closing. The room felt lighter now — as though the rain had left something behind, invisible but pure.

Jeeny remained by the window, her silhouette framed against the faint light, her expression calm — that rare calm that comes after understanding something you cannot explain.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny… maybe that’s what strength really is. Not shouting at the world, not pretending to be fierce — just lying in the dark and daring to be gentle again.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Strength isn’t in surviving the noise. It’s in remembering the quiet.”

Host: Outside, the trees swayed, brushing against the glass, whispering to the night. The moonlight broke through the thinning clouds, spilling over the room, touching both of them — one lost in sleep, one lost in thought.

For a long while, neither spoke. The world had grown soft, still, forgiven.

And in that fragile quiet — that space between exhaustion and faith — something holy returned: not God, perhaps, but the courage to look toward the window again and whisper into the dark, trusting that someone, somewhere, might be listening.