These are the symptoms of letting go.

Dragged up and drugged up.
What had she taken?
Something or other. Lots of somethings or others really.

There was incense spiraling somewhere.
She didn't believe in smoking. But she was a contradiction.
Hypocritical.
Because it was all the same thing.

But self destruction is self destruction and she was self destructing at the speed of sound, wrapped in jasmine and spread out on silk.

And if it got a little dark.
That was okay.
Nightime hides you away from everything that's not there anyway.
Because nothing's really there, now is it?

And oh it was getting heavy now.
Something was weighing her down and she was drowning in it.
Maybe the pills or maybe the smoke.
Maybe herself.

She smiled as the curtain closed.
Oh how beautiful that performance was.

"We woke up this morning to a sky with no air in it,
And all the streets are filled with a thousand burning crosses.
And what we thought was sunrise? Just passing headlights.

Still the choir girls sing,
"Oh lord, can you save us? Can you save us?""