There is that scorch in the air that says its at least 115F, when the key as it leaves the ignition is hot enough to burn skin. The fires to the north have stopped pouring smoke into the air, though the skies are still thick with the haze that hangs determinedly during the summer. The heat is unrelenting, the sun is unforgiving and the summer begins to stretch into the unchanging oppression that wearies the soul until the rains come. If they come.
Loneliness tugs at my spirit, dragging my heart into sadness. Melancholy paints the day grey.
