In the last of all mornings I took a picture of a flower.
And then it got hot out. Hot like soup hot. But soup you can't eat. Soup that you can't even hold the bowl that it comes in with your bare hands.
It got so hot out that everything died and we could only venture forth from our residence in the dark of night where still we walk bent and suffering and struggling to breathe.
I may be exaggerating a little.
I may not truly be cowering inside as the world ends outside. Who knows?
Even the end of the world runs in a slow motion it's too slow to see. Or is it too quick to register?
Whatever.
But I'm still glad I have this picture, from cooler times, strolling free on a living planet. It's of a flower.
Every fifteen minutes I apply it to my forehead.
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