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Tired wingnut

Bolts are on the caboose, way too tight. Swerved around the midget, or little person, whatever they may be called. Over sensitive mushroom on the horizon pouring heat in my face.

Just when you begin to think that it is all over, rain falls like acid from the sky. Melted a favorite pair of shoes, hot concrete slabs blistered my feet. The train was smooth and the rye was good. The woman who climbed on board was no saint, at least the priest didn’t think so.

Name was Simone? Tracy? Who in the hell can remember. She was a dynamite blond? No, brunette I think with willowy wisps of stranded hair, clinging to stained cheeks. Lost her smile. Crystal ate her teeth and burned the flesh. Purged the artiste from her soul. Too bad. I kind of liked her. She went out Tuesday and here its Thursday already. I think it is at least. Gotta check the clouds to see where they are blowing.

West. We move west. Sun sky getting warmer, a little red heat blisters the skin. Mushroom advances onto the Baja, whitewashing everything in pure brilliance. Luster. Brass polished the knob but it was gone. She slipped her hand and was gone. Ashened. Pale face remained. Etched. Tinted glass that looked out onto the mesa. Desert plain. I never saw her again. Who knows what tears these mortals shed.

Did anyone mourn my passing?

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