It's dawn on a hot sunday morning in June, and Amy Winehouse is inside her North London home, staring at her reflection in a dark tinted mirror, looking the tiny little body in front of her up and down, assessing the emaciated tattooed limbs, the jungle of a black beehive weave, the hallucinatory glow of her transparent green eyes. All around her, Winehouse's home is in disastrous disarray: Discarded bags of potato chips, crumpled nuggets of tinfoil, **** bottles, lingerie boxes and scattered old credit cards tell of a long night that hasn't ended in weeks, maybe months.
