Still hot. Still and hot. No sleep, t-shirt, undies. Toss on the bed, all melodramatic and cranky. Wait for the sky to split open. Thunder grumbles, lightning spits. Bursts of light and shadow on the walls, like the glow from a television set. Think about work. Think about an overdrawn bank account. Think about fresh raspberries. Think about the Grammy nominations. Same bloody formula every year. Crusty old rockers on comeback trail; latest songbird fresh from her teens; inoffensive radio friendly band with soaring ballad; token gangsta rapper type in attempt to show awards still relevant; and Bob Dylan. Finally, rain hammers on the roof, sleep, wake up, better mood.