Jan. 25: The Heat
It is Jan. 25 and I am dripping sweat. The stripped heat bakes the cement and crisps my skin.
It is Jan. 25 in Los Angeles and I am wearing shorts and a baggy tanktop.
It is to hard to think in this heat. The dog lies flat on the dirt in the shade. My brain must be melting too. I can’t even.
It is Jan. 25 and if I could think straight I might try not to think about what this means in a larger sense, for the land and the food and the people already without water. Instead, I lie flat in the shade of my room, with the window open in hopeful anticipation of a breeze
Soon, it’ll be February.