Her breath fogs the windowpane her thoughts are circling the drain she’s giving one last show to the city down below. ​ Now she's taking off her dress it hits the floor, room's a mess Luna's sitting on a book giving her a puzzled look. She remembers an old friend who said death was not the end he would tell her many lies she would sing him lullabies. Like a tightrope act at night with one leg and poor eyesight she was never truly sold on the perks of growing old.