This manner of warmth is no easy pill to swallow. It is abhorrently warm and it is obscenely humid. The dewpoints are dancing dangerously close to the 70 degree line; if I lived in Indiana I would certainly go so far as to say that it feels rather close outside.
I hate it.
Pondering the future in a world so horrid that the heat lays like a damp pancake on my world is a ponderance I'd rather not see actualize.
What God could let this happen, let alone happen to me?
At some point in the racist riot that is summer, the hurly burly is decidely done - the battle art certainly lost and lost - and lost even more in the humid pace of thunderstorms. What point is there, then, in the sweltering, diminishment of the soul that is this vulgar heat?
“Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
I hate summer.