I. AM. MOIST.
The air smothers me like a sopping wet blanket, fresh from a warm wash, smelling vaguely of mold.
Sweat pools in the unspeakable zones of my body. It dribbles down into the small of my back where it lingers and, I presume, waits. For what? I am not yet sure.
I look skyward. I pray for the storm. The heavens rumble. They say, ‘not yet. You must first know more of my oppression, puny man.’
The liquid that composes the majority of my form is leaking out of me at an unfathomable rate. It will not be long before I will be a dried, desiccated husk desperately licking the air for just a taste of the water robbed from me.
Now, the illusions begin: the nightmares of my breath being sucked from my body by the heavy weight of the atmosphere given the hefty, rotund frame of Clive Palmer reaching for the back of my head to pull me into his damp, perspiring embrace. I fight against it. But, like a Queenslander, I end up going with the tide and I am suddenly suspicious of everyone and I love the humidity.
I cannot escape the burden. It has me trapped and moving sluggishly, as though I am trying to breaststroke - the coward’s stroke - in warm, clear mud.
I am a fish suffocating in a boiling pond.
I am the promise of rain refused.
