Soul Rain

It sat hard, motionless. At times benevolent. At times cold Statistic hungry for eats. Frank stared at it hibernating on the coffee table. Outside? Still air, sound of big rigs in the background.
Frank gazed at it. In his head he saw grainy, aged, yellowed films of partisans being shot by the Bolsheviks.
What happens when you died? How many con men had he heard on these boarder stations XERF, XEMO and XLO. Send them money go to heaven. Frank had is own way of going there it sat on the coffee table a steel eyed and ready.
Frank bolted off the bed, palms sweating and ran out from a the run down aluminum and wood death chamber. The gun sat in the trailer. He planted his feet on the ground. Streams of sweat poured out of him.
He knew he’d do it someday, blow his brain wide open like pieces off lobster on the half shell. Today wasn’t the day. Instead, he sat on an rusted, used fuel barrel his head hanging down, tears started to pour out like desert rain.
Frank knew taking his own life wold do nothing. It’d be like taking a red flame and smoke driven train to hell; your fucked up, emotional luggage coming ridding with you

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