On this, the last day of the month, the hottest in the year, I find the word all wrong to use. It scorches: screechingly, searingly, tearing into my flesh with a canine sizzle as I inhale the vapors of the humid bodies standing in weary line and try to muster images of a New York spring behind closed eyes with squiggles of translucence drifting to the boundaries, trapped within my field of vision, in much the same way as my body remains grounded while the spirit readies itself to nose-dive into an achingly green patch in an unbusy corner of Central Park.
Wisdom Wears Neon Pyjamas 
Vox populi