I want to feel cool air again, a breeze, a cool tickle across my shoulders, behind my ear, a curlicue of movement around my bare shins and ankles. I want to feel air, that moves across all of me, gently, awakening me, with a whisper of leaves, colluding, intriguing, piquing my interests to go outside and feel my hair lift, and my damp forehead give up its moisture and my hands drift toward the soil. I want to lose the background drone of the street's air-conditioners, the cold chill that drops out of the ceiling, falling heavily to the floor, so that I sit, stultified, with my feet under a wrap and my bare shoulders pimpled in perpetual clamminess of perspiration. I long for my feet to ice-block when I creep outside at dawn to pick up the dew-damp newspaper, to feel the comfort of my hands encompass the warm cup waiting inside. I want to loop the garden hose away and see the lawn contain its neediness, hear the frogs singing out their praise for my raking of leaves, see the up-surging of toadstools and first spikes of bulbs. Most of all I want to want to do something, without the heaviness of limbs, without the pressing down of humid air, without the conscious counting of drinks to stay hydrated, without the deliberate force of will, to stay cool, to stay connected, to stay awake, to stay tidy, to stay clean. To stay, at all. It's so, so, warm. Bring on the scudding clouds, the storms!