Moving is an incredible ordeal. You pack up every little thing you own into many boxes. And you look at and say "That’s it. That’s my material life." Then you move it and think "Man, I got too much stuff." You unpack it and start throwing things away, looking and listening to things you haven't looked at or listened to since the last time you moved. Memories of times long past come flooding to the forefront of your mind. You remember where you were then and compare it to where you are now. Recalling the dreams you used to have, the ambitions you thought were the way to go. You wonder "Have I accomplished what I wanted to?" "Do I still have those same goals anymore?"

Dewpoint (the way you measure humidity in the air, on a wet bulb thermometer) is 74, I feel like I'm walking through water. Everyone is sluggish, walking at a snail's pace. A thin sheen of perspiration, across the arms and faces of men, women, boys, girls and hairless dogs. The temperament of the people seems to be a function of the weather. Foul words and gesture, flung across traffic; gentle smiles return sour faces. Even on clear days, shining days the weather can be bad.