It would not be an exaggeration to say that the weather of late is soupy.

The air is thick with water, pollen. Anything which does not move for any period of time is dusted in yellow. When it rains, the yellow coating froths around the edges, circles at the base of a stone.

The air hangs thickly like stewed meat, waiting to be picked away.

Everything is sticky. My fingers adhere to the keyboard.

And the heat leaves me craving something salty–fried chicken, a bag of potato chips, clam strips.

Thriving are the mosquitoes. This is their time to shine and shine they do, licking their lips as they find that soft spot on my neck, the place I was saving for lips.

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