The headlines read: 'Times won't be the same now that 
you're gone.' You blew your candles out and forgot to 
wish. Now I drink myself to sleep. I'm hoping it might 
slow everything down again. I'm still here. I go to work. 
And sleep. And eat. And breathe. Though I wouldn't call 
it living anymore. My mind spins round. Too fast. 
Sometimes I've got to slow everything down. Now I'm 
somewhere in between and I don't think it's fair. The 
candle burns down and I realize it's time to go. Just one 
more drink and I'll be in my haze. I can dull my senses 
for another day or two. I'll slow everything down. And 
either I'll speed up or drown in another day.