It is too hot to do anything. In Connecticut, the humidity was like a fluid blanket you couldn’t get out from under. I come back to LA and it’s no better. It is too hot to write. The words stick at the ends of my fingertips. It is too hot to follow through. It is too hot to edit. It is too hot to do anything other than fill up my water glass and walk from the kitchen to the living room a hundred times, checking for minute drops in temperature. It is too hot to be concerned. Too hot to wonder what more I could have done. I take two or three showers a day. I buy linen summer dresses and they wrinkle so easily that I stop caring. I don’t own an iron. I hang them in the bathroom when I shower but the water isn’t hot enough to steam. They just get wet and I towel them off after I towel myself off. I write on my bed with bare legs and my laptop sticks to my thighs. My cat won’t come near me anymore. He sprawls on my unused desk or spreads himself across the wood floor. It’s too hot for being pet. I write songs too hard, too long. My fingers hurt against the keys of my laptop. They sting in the water of the shower. I make coffee and stick it in the fridge and then I keep checking back to see if it’s cold. I sing the same moody lyrics over and over and my best friend texts me to say I think this is the best thing you’ve written yet. 2 hot 2 live I text her back. She sends me a string of nonsensical emojis. We FaceTime without speaking. I melt. My cat is afraid of the guitar. I am out of paper towels and cannot clean up the mess of melting. We work around it. photographs taken in Connecticut. my young cousins.