The heat is getting to me. It comes as a depletion of air, forcing films of water from my skin and it’s like breathing from the spout of a vacuum cleaner minus all the dust. I read of an English autumn, shuffling leaves and the smell of earth, sunshine slipping off bronzed foliage onto a road leading downhill. Cars weave by and it’s like a river minus all the water but still I am sinking, turning and oscillating, drowning faithfully as expected. Sleep beckons but I am tired of the shadows I get under the eyes and the endless droughts inside of them. The only dream left is the dizzying heights the climber hopes to reach and the angel fears to fall. And the mortal wonders at the use of it at all.
Notes
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