A torpid night has passed, and I wonder at the birds who manage to display their usual energy when all else is wilted in the sultry morning twilight. Well, I exaggerate -- but only slightly. In fact, the air is merely balmy, but so great is the contrast with the cool mornings of recent days that I feel as though I have been transported to the tropics. I think it will be no blankets at all today. Even now the window fans continue to whir, but to little avail. This afternoon, I am sure, I shall be forced to resort to the artifice of air conditioning. As much as I hate the thought of enriching the power mongers, the house is apt to become intolerable without electric intervention. I hold the hope that this year, as last, July and August are at least no worse than June. Now, to sleep, before the sun rises and blasts the world like Satan's own breath.