The End.

Now, come one, come all, to this tragic affair;
Wipe off that make-up -- what sin is despair?
So throw on the black dress, mix in with the lot;
You might wake up and notice you're someone you're not...

Autumn rain. A tree the color of fire drops its embers, leaves them to drift in puddles on the pavement. Sun meets cloud cover and quits, allowing the cemetery only a half-assed, diffused glow.
Amidst the season's conflagration, a snake appears: the Hearse and its tentative following. Car doors open to an outpour -- black suits; black dresses; black umbrellas; black expressions...a casket, blackest of all.
Of the mourners, some have been drinking -- their whispers fill the fall with whiskey -- and some have been smoking. They are all ghosts, suspended in an altered state of sobriety.
Here, the grinding of a flint, and a flame, and life is breathed into a cigarette; there, plastic buds begin to play for an old lover, and all other sound is drowned away.
So many faces, each facing their own music. No one is liking the notes that they hear.