Thursday, May 11, 2017

There's a brand new chrome military 45 caliber lying on its left side on the desk of the Oval Office.
The man who was elected President of the United States sits behind the desk and alone in the room with the background white noise of a moderate Washington DC rain.
This man's peculiar hair is mussed up, his face pale, he is slumped back in the leather chair with a despondent, given-up expression on his face, and his eyes are hypnotically focused on the 45.
So much has happened to him. Only when he is really alone do these thoughts hound him. And he is alone now. No way out. Everything he's done, everything he's said, as the cliche goes, has here and now returned to hound him...and they are barking louder than the rain.
The dark intention sprouts from the seed deep down, and he sees his arm reach towards the object of his fascination, his petite hand grasps the heavy weapon in the manner of use. As the peaceful rain falls outside, the man watches his own hand lift the beautiful weapon towards his own skull, he feels the coldness of the steel barrel tingle against his right temple, he presses it hard, partially distracting himself from his dark emotions, he absorbs himself in an effort to aim correctly. He didn't want to be a vegetable, and he didn't want to have to live with failing at this, too.
Moments later the degree of peace on earth was enhanced, and the nuclear clock ticked backwards. 
Then I woke up.

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