Humid

The heat is as oppressive as a firing squad; gritty sweat slicks under my shirt as the devil himself breathes on my neck. The fan is little help as it turns its head left-right-left as though searching for a lost child; it merely pushes the stale air bureacratically around the room. Bulging clouds outside the window hang heavy in the air, laughing, taunting me. They don't need so much rain in their grey bellies, yet still they will not release it. If this heat doesn't lift soon, I won't be here much longer. There will simply be a puddle on a chair where I used to be. Ecks marks the spot.