I once knew a girl by the name of Coma White. She was driven by a strict diet of caffine, nicotine and cocaine. She was destroying herself and didn't even know it. The worst part, she didn't even care. As long as her face was on ever magazine cover and she kept getting the seven digit checks, she was fine. She died yesterday, cold and alone. I watched as her body laid there stiff and emotionless and I couldn't tell the difference.

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What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries for them from prayers or bells,
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,-
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.