I love deceased British singer Nick Drake as much as anybody. The melancholic, lean, long-haired man in jeans and a rumpled sports coat–who either took an overdose of his anti-depressant by mistake in 1974, or killed himself because his albums weren’t selling well–is someone whose haunting music and life story rips open my chest wall, revealing my heart.

But yesterday, while I was attempting to relax into savasana, the final flat-on-your-back corpse pose that ends every class, my yoga teacher turned on Drake’s song “Black Eyed Dog” (his most depressing anthem according to the liner notes). My closed eyes shot open, and I glared at the ceiling, thinking surely, my yoga teacher was kidding. But no, this selection seemed deliberate. It is a soft song, at least. So I said a prayer for Drake. And let him go.