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Published: September 23rd 2006
The towering anvil clouds.
If you could see this intense humidity the way you can see a dense freezing fog solidify the air on a cold January morning, you wouldn’t be able to see past your elbows. The air has a density that seems to block your pores, fills your nostrils, your lungs, your eyes, your ears and your mouth.
Your eyes, if they could penetrate the hot fog, would see a thick cloud of chocking black smoke streaming from the trees, bushes and turgid grass. The flowers belch out their chocking dampness all around you, cleverly disguised with gentle perfumes.
There is water everywhere. From my face to the horizon in all directions, from my feet to the tops of the anvil clouds towering above me, pressing down on the saturated air until curtains of dark rain wrap themselves around the town.
My clothes sag. My books wrinkle and swell and my brain turns to jelly.
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