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please, touch

Damn this godforsaken oppresive heat. Damn how it makes me feel. Uncomfortable. Annoyed. Unpleasant. This heat is linking up nicely with all the things going through my head right now. Maybe it’s been decided that I’ve got to be physically uncomfortable as well. Who the fuck am I to complain?

I should buy some sort of hairband for times like these: get the hair away from my forehead, let it fucking breathe. Maybe that’ll help. Perhaps not much, but anything will do.

Air-conditioning in a friend’s car, a table fan at full blast, a cold shower: all helped, to varying degrees, but all temporary respites. There’s no escaping this heat, I’m sure of that. It smothers anyone and everyone, from the old ladies cleaning up at Central Market Annexe to the bride and groom at a kenduri in Manjalara to lecturers lecturing in lecture halls, and makes a mockery of all but the most powerful air-conditioning.

Strange thoughts as I lie on my bed with the fan pointed straight at me. Reminisce. Remember past times and places, people and faces, words and thoughts. Try and recall the last time this sort of heat descended upon us. Try and recall where I was, what I was doing, what was going on in life. I can’t remember. This sort of heat’s not significant enough to become a marker in life, to become a beacon, some sort of landmark by which other things, events and people are remembered: not like rejection or the turmoil of leaving a neighbourhood behind.

Not at all. But still very uncomfortable, though.

I have the house all to myself for forseeably a couple of hours more. Perhaps I should just strip naked.

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