Twenty seven years.
Drinking binges; drugs; cutting; co-dependent relationships. Innocence lost; numb the pain.
That voice: throaty raw authenticity.
Making cups of tea for paparazzi.
A feeling I have no name for is here: it’s not fair. I wish you had the strength to hang in there. Your potential is gone, so suddenly. And so is your pain. R.I.P. Amy Winehouse.