The uncoordinated spin out of control, in gasps of stale air, is where she is now. Only heroin keeps her wanting to be alive, and only heroin can kill her this way. The ritual is as important as the drug, the only security in an all-too fucked up world. I won't let you ignore it. She has a story too.
Every day is the same.
She sleeps through the day, hooks and scavenges through the evening, and shoots up through the night. This through also means during, because she knows of no destination. She became as she is, absent any notion of control. As such, the word control has lost all meaning. There is no control because there is no future.