Everything's damp. People on the street with sweaty brows & limp clothes. My morning paper, still readable if I catch it in time, but soft and frail & handled with care. Anything taken from fridge to table rapidly generates a pool of water. Every so often I head down to the basement & check for leaks, but it's performing valiantly. Though the house is watertight I'm still on duty opening & shutting windows, what with the heat and the intermittent waves of rain. It's a cycle of insanity, running up and down the stairs, and consulting the forecast every time I leave the home. The air outside is fetid, and the sky uneasy, livid, sour. There's some sort of message here. A patch of cement out front has turned a mossy green, and some of the tomatoes are dappled with brown spots.
With the temperature lower today, I briefly entertain the notion of putting on jeans instead of shorts, but as soon as I get them on I take them off again. UPS mode still applies. Endurance matters.
In August of 1899, a hurricane struck the city, causing massive flooding and destruction. The Eagle reported extensively on the hurricane's damage, and also (slightly facetiously?) noted a by-product the kids enjoyed. Some party.