Dry Rot

The air is brutal, heavy and heaving, charged with loaded static and beatings ready to be unleashed. This is the type of weather you have no choice but to punch or be punched. It becomes almost impossible not to beat your fist into some soft skull, to knock blood and teeth to the street. We are seething with that energy, prowling around eyeing each other up; who will be the first to crack and unleash that brute force, to rip shirts and tear skin? Wait til dark, stay off the pavements, the heat leads to madness.