The heat is killing me. It’s turning my brain into soup. It’s 34°C outside, which is not ideal but manageable. Inside this house though, where the walls are thick, it’s 37°C. It’s like a fever; it’s as if I’m in an oven. It’s very humid, too. No respite here but the dark, so people wait for evening to come. The newspapers say it is definitely summer now. I don’t know if I’m happy about that.
Good night, M. It’s too hot to think.