The wind had swung around, that was it. The cicadas had gone, along with the wet heaviness of a dead summers night.  Flushed clean from the south, the world became a new place. Rebecca tossed in her third floor room, waiting for the relief to syphon its way in and wipe away the sweat. Slowly it sidled around the window edges and swirled across the sheets, through her hair and out onto the balcony. Slowly, the warm, close embrace of summer faded, replaced by the golden distance of autumn.

Summer's embrace was a solidarity that none could escape. As it drifted, Reb felt the connection with the rest of the city slowly sever. The common nerve connecting them was no longer. They were islands drifting in a miasma of urbanity.

It's strange the way that suffering binds us. Holds our hearts and minds. A hot sleepless night shared by all, tossing and turning as one, sweating, fucking, melting clawing for relief. At that moment the city is connected, bound. There are no insects drifting in space, but a solid mass searching for relief.