She visited a psychiatrist once a week, and drank wine three times a week, on Saturday, Sunday, and usually Wednesday.
Once a month, or so, she would cry herself to sleep. The other 30 days she would stay awake for most of the night.
Some days she would drink whiskey, some she would smoke cigarettes. Everyday she would write poetry.
One time every year, she would show her poetry to me. I would read her poetry, every night, for a year.
Twice a week, or three times maybe, I would coax her out of her apartment so she could see the world. Twice a week, or three times maybe, she would quietly watch the world as I watched her quiet contemplation.
Once in a lifetime she swallowed a whole bottle of pills. I will think about her, every day, for the rest of my life, and wonder what it would be like to spend a day in her life.