Summertime, scorching sun, blister the streets and sizzle the grass. Puffy whites dissolve in silky blue, a blazing blinding blot in lieu. Screaming children splash about in a incommodious cauldron while freckled mothers flush a heated crimson, clad in bikinis that reversedly twist the prided manhood. Men with senses scarcely dot the streets, ladies sit in cafeterias sipping cold tea. Hammer on, dear fuddled elephantine carpenters, above the placidity of a languorous heap, while bits of debris snow upon that erupting beast. We are ants immersed in a pot of sweet gurgling lava and marinated by the mid-day desert wind.