Where to begin. Especially when it’s almost certainly the end. Words don't come cheap at 35 degrees; if I get the henry out of here I’ll write something a little more comprehensive.

Languid and slow in this sickly heat. A perpetual steam bath; I need to escape. I just spent my last six bucks on hot rum and now I’m wasting, melting, naked behind a keyboard. Balls stuck to the chair in more way than one. When I can, I walk down the street and loiter in shops with air conditioning.

Less than a year ago I was free, riding my bullet, up, high and away, over the cloudline… across vast snow planes, asperous summits, harsh serrated peaks, my poor tar soaked lungs gasping all the way...

…another wave of sickness pulses its way through my body. I’m an ill man. But there’s not a lot I can do about that. I’ve learnt to cope. I feel some better now anyway. It’ll be dark soon and the cool air and the cover of darkness will give my ailing body some reprieve. It’s probably comeuppance. I’m also a bad man, beyond the palliation of any Christian God. When I’m dead my flesh will burn implacably alongside Brutus and Cassius, my back forever skinned by the claws of Lucifer… It'll be a lot hotter then.

Things are reaching some kind of crescendo; I feel close to the central nerve, a revelation, shrouded in steam... here at the very hub of the wheel the most fantastic, the most improbable can be embraced without seeming the least bit strange. a heat induced delirium perhaps. but out here on the perimeter all boundaries fade and the world reveals itself for the mad slaughter house that it is... the treadmill stretches away to infinitude - tight, acute, logic runs rampant, the language apocalyptic - bloody and merciless - not an exit sign anywhere...