It’s hot outside.
Today’s the kind of day you would remember from years ago, when you used to wake up at whatever time your body’s internal clock thought was suitable, and in your state of remembrance, there’s heat, filing your brain with red and orange-colored thoughts, and if for the fifteen to twenty minutes you’re standing in the heat you feel the sun explode upon your brow you know then that you’ve breached the realm of the hot, the cold, the unbridled amalgamation of tumult weather. It’s the heat you remember. It’s the heat that you hate. You have an affinity for the unreal Saharan desert in the time of Job.
Time is moving so quickly so unbelievably quickly, you don’t notice the exponential growth of humanity combusting into what was years of work into a month of productivity. Years of plowing the fields rendered useless in a week with a machine. The human touch is gone. The human torch is on.
It’s the heat. I don’t like the heat.
“Job” more like “Jobs,” Steve “Jobs.” The guy who made the Mac. I’m writing on a Mac. An Apple. An iPod, a holy text, a biblical memoir, a sonnet composed on the ancient cavern wall’s of Babylon.
It’s the heat.
It’s hot outside. And don’t blame it being summer – it’s always been like this.