It’s roughly three in the afternoon.
With 45 °C and a jungle-like humidity, one would expect the countryside to be silent.
But the guy with the drums is once again practicing broken rhythms.
Very broken.
This feels like something out of an Edgar Rice Burroughs story.
The natives are restless.

I’m sitting at my computer, rewriting the final part of a book I should have delivered this morning – I ditched the final 60 pages, I’ll have to rewrite rewrite rewrite.

I wish I was in some big city.
Paris, London, Berlin.
Even Turin, why not?
Under the rain.
Listening to Bach.

Not that anyone out there is really interested, right?

Oh, heck… missing Bach and the rain, I might just settle for Roger Hodgson…