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Things are blur, blacken out to the sides. Her tears are welling up. Then they come in long streaks, down to her lips. They taste of bitterness, though she's been knowing too well they should not be made of anything but salt. The faux lashes do not want to stay in place; her favorite Yves Saint Lauren mascara mingles with tears, constitutes of a false combination that is too much of a toxic for her liking. She never cried this much before, as she recalled. Her nostrils grow uneasy, later stuck. Tears are falling uncontrollably. What upsets her so much? Just a moment ago she was still singing soundless notes of glee. Her voice now strikes a cord that quivers in a low strain of music.
SHE HAS JUST DIED.