A hot wind is blowing. I have never felt anything like it before, but as I open the office’s balcony door with its flaking white paint and stiff hinges, 35 degrees rush into the air-conditioned room, force their way into my lungs, drag my breaths downward to match their sluggish pace. Chaos is slow, lethargic, lethal. There is something arcane here beyond the aesthetic.
I pray for a storm – something dark and sudden and drenching. Something to wake us. Something to frighten us back to ourselves.