My bed was a sanatorium of crumpled sheets and forgotten pillows this morning; a topographical nightmare of cotton folds and empty shadows.
The extent of this morning heat was benevolently beguiled by my dear air conditioner, the grandfatherly device, hung unceremoniously high on an ebony colored, silk textured wall.
The weather today might be referred to as a heat wave, though it's nothing more than being stewed in a city cauldron that's tipped over its boiling point.
A jaunty sweat laden saunter to the kitchen, intensified with the added scrutiny of a faithful thermometer revealed that the house temperature is nothing more than 32°C, and yet you couldn't convince me that I'm not playing hopscotch on the precipice of a very active volcano.
It's a feeling akin to being in a jungle, but since I'm well aware that this is a city, we can call it a zoo. It feels like I'm in a zoo, with the constant bellowing of cicada's in each direction of this house, the hot winds blowing through the innumerable windows mounted on every godforsaken wall, and the foliage of green that undoubtedly houses these damned cicada's. No doubt prompting them to scream their notion of operatic tenor.
Oh mon dieu, this jungle noise and the calescent 'breeze' as some misguided poor fool had called this broiler wind, rather makes me feel like I'm hoisted up on a tree, in a forest which is at its peak of a piping hot Indian summer, looking for giant apes. How very Jane Goodall.
I shall now proceed to shut each window, slide every sliding door that lets even a whiff of this heat tsunami into my dainty house.
Rains..where art thou today?
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