The weatherman said the summer-heat was record-breaking this year, like we should award it an Olympic medal or something. But the locust, perched on her windowsill, tells me heat isn't relative - but a constant - because even in the night, the sun is always shining on the other half of the planet, it is a pot always almost over-boiling, it is a flower always blooming, it is a fire always on the verge of consuming everything, it just always is, and if it bothers you, just take a moment to float in the river, and you'll soon forget your worry once you're halfway submerged underwater. I would tell the locust that humans don't work that way, that we always need something to compare and something to complain about, that we probably wouldn't be able to survive the winter if we loved the sun that much. But the locust does not have time for me. She is quite busy, as she always is, trying once more to chase the sun. And she doesn't really care how terribly, constantly, wonderfully hot it is outside today.
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