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.