If you really live you'll never die

We're in London, mid-october. Not so far from Camden. It's cold outside but she's wearing a red tank top, she's sweating. Sitting on the ground, she's crying. Tears down her face, mascara faded, she's smoking that good post-rockshow cigarette. She's holding a beer in the other hand, she doesn't even know how she got it. She's trying to realize what just happened. She doesn't know how to get back to her shitty hotel but who cares. She's fucking lost at the moment. She can still hear the music. Those songs she heard for the last time tonight. She catches other people's eyes. Some of them understand. They're crying too. She should take a cab, but she won't. She wants to stay here forever. On the sidewalk. Crying the loss of something which once made her happy. Some other people are talking shit, laughing, she wants to punch them. "Shut up", she begs. The wind through her brown hair makes her look like she just survived a hurricane. And this is how she feels. Heart ripped up. Empty. Sad. We're in London, mid-october. And her favorite city tastes like funerals.