08.15.2002 || 09h16

About last night

Summer. Nighttime. Montr�al. The air is so thick that each breath feels like it's got weights attached to it; everything practically shimmers and looks like the whole world is sweating and you can feel yourself shedding weight though your pores, soaking the bed beneath you with kilogrammes turned to litres.

They call it 'muggy,' as if giving it a name makes it less evil, less slimy. It doesn't. Humid; the word does nothing to reflect nights when it's too damned hot, too damned wet to reach over and touch your lover, or even yourself.

These nights stretch on until each moment is, itself, a jewel of years spent tossing and turning on a sopping bedsheet, breathing like each breath is a labour of desperation, like each thought is too heavy for the mind.

Where the mercury climbs so high that you look back on 40 degrees with the affectionate blush of reminiscence.

That is a summer night in Montr�al.



||Gods save the Queen,
||cf

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