Why did I pack my things and head back up the hill? The asphalt is burning from below, and the sun is roasting us from above. The air is stagnant and doesn’t move. My apartment is a furnace, and I can barely see my workplace anymore because of a mirage rising up. The bike lock has bent out of shape; the key no longer fits. The car tires are forming an unholy alliance with the tar, and nothing’s working anymore.
There stands a lonely, poor little tree in a pot, baking in the heat. Its shadow brushes against me, and I turn back.
I’ll take another run at it and head for the cool.