Meteorological Report

I can't feel even the slightest breeze cooling the afternoon. The air burns, like a hot breath of fire, not real breathing air, as if the afternoon didn't want to die just yet and now was the beginning of the heat wave. There are no clouds, just white strings, the thinnest of strings, unwoven from the clouds. And the sky, seen at a distance, seems fresh, like the crystalline clean water of a weir. I think: maybe the sky is a big freshwater sea and maybe we're not living bellow the sky, but above it; maybe we are seeing the world upside-down and the earth is like a sky and when we die, when we die, maybe we just fall and sink into the sky. A fishless weir, this sky, and bottomless. Clouds, slender strings. And the air, burning from within, burning flames suffocating beneath the skin, invisible. And the air, like a tired man, expecting...