Train's Gone . . .

It's not Friday. It's not the 13th. But you know it's one of those days as soon as you crawl out of bed . . .

It snows all morning. Rains all afternoon. The mail carrier brings bills . . .

Your pen runs out of ink halfway through the suicide note. You stand on the rainswept railway track awaiting the thunder of oblivion . . .

Then a passerby tells you: Train's gone; the 4:30 express was five minutes early. First time ever . . .