Living where the outside temperature is 100 degrees or more for months allows you to channel your inner gila monster or your desert tortoise if that's preferable. The laziness that comes over you signifies itself through urges to absorb, vegetate or journal. Appetite becomes miniscule and cravings for ice cold adult liquid make so much sense. Even a disappointing piece of salmon can't launch any meaningful rant. Concepts like beauty being a feeling and the internet being a verb linger for those savory cerebral seconds of sanguine solitude where alliteration takes you hostage momentarily but then something causes you to return to earth and think about spanking. Oh the section in the commerce clause may distract momentarily, too but the sound of the cascading water stimulates limbically and affirms our reptillian part of our brain is still engaged, thank you. The 100 degrees just dramatizes the whole odyssey as a rebirth more than a quest. Beyond imagination. Like the guy in the story below:

A cruise ship founders on a reef, and a man just manages to swim some miles and crawl up on a desert island. After recovering from the ordeal, he begins to explore and finds to his great surprise (and pleasure) that the only other survivor of this terrible tragedy is Cindy Crawford. They build a lean-to and find some food and water. After a few weeks, it becomes clear that help is not on the way, so they start to get intimate. The guy is clearly ecstatic for a couple of weeks, but one morning she awakes to find him moping under a tree. "What's the matter?" Cindy says: "Is there anything I can do?" "Well, I am a little shy about asking you," he replies: "But could you take some of that charcoal from the fire and paint a mustache on your face?" "A mustache? Well... I... I suppose so", and she does it. "Now, there's just one other thing. Can I call you Bob... like my friend?" "Bob? Well... if it will make you feel better... all right." "Great!" he cries, looks at her and says: "Bob! You're never gonna believe who I'm fucking!"