Summer reigns even over the night. The evening air is humid and stale. Not a single breath of wind stirs to relieve the stickiness. The hoards of mosquitoes outside means a pleasant star-gazing stroll is out of the question.
My efforts at the writing-desk are curtailed by rivulets of sweat trickling over my forehead, eyebrows, arms, legs, and dripping off my nose and elbows. For a while I am fascinated by splotches of my sweat on the foolscap, the blurred ink bearing semblance to a Rorschach test. The sight of a fuzzy ball, the remains of what used to be an ‘o’, conjures up nightmares of p-orbitals and electron clouds. See the amorphous fuzz enlarge its borders, creeping along the next line and transfiguring the innocent bystanders into patches of fuzz themselves…
The stifling heat again commands my attention. After taking another shower, the third time in the evening, I stand by the window hoping at least for a whisper of coolness.
The inexorable summer lends none.
Perhaps it’s a night for an early bedtime.
Melancholia 