My wilting is like that of the flowers, which remain soft, for now, but oddly damp. I'm oddly damp. I expect to be oddly damp for some time to come. This will be the hottest night yet this year, and the thought of it fills me with dread. Last night was barely tolerable, and tonight I might go mad, rip off my clothes and go running through the quiet streets, horrifying the raccoons.
The next time the temperature will go below 70 degrees is predicted to be early next Tuesday morning, in the hour before dawn. By then I'll be a raving lunatic. In fact I hear the moon calling me now. I must go out and answer it.
