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Book Description by Greenfield McKenna He waits for you at night, waits for the pain of mind, the tormenting, the gutless guile, the soulless celebration, before he makes his move. You wait, you pause, you stand. At the end of the alley, he waits and hates and trades life for bullets for smack. He's a junkie, on the junk, always on the junk. Tragic. A textbook study on his Central Avenue flop, the way he sits, the way he stares at the coal-blue sky and wonders. —Why won't it rain? he asks. —I would give any money to feel the Rain Upon My Skin, he pleads to the cosmos, to Sandra, to anyone that will hear. But the rain, it does not come. Will the blackness of his bile spew forth before he gets you, or will the rain fall and cleanse his rotten soul of all sins and freedoms? |
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