There's the heat that courses in my veins and settles down under the arm pits, a musty smell that grows and weighs on me with a tanglible force so heavy and darkly humid that I can slit its gut with the razor sharp knife made from cold ice.

My face rests against the cold wisps of air that float in the refrigirator. I look into the caverns hoping to find something that will take away this ancient endless thirst.

And yet it may all soon become a distant part of this summer's fading memory. I'm waiting for the full burst of monsoon. But for now the room seems heavy and dark and uncompromisingly hot.