We've broken down, we're fading out.
The weekend always seems to let reality set in.

Don't feel like baking muffins anymore. Or lying on the bathroom floor. Singing to corpses sound much more delightful.

Whatever. She's just going to become more useless, anyway.

And she's going to die on her keepee. He can scatter her ashes in the river. Or canal. She isn't fussy.

Goodbye.