heat-weary

Updated: May 8, 2025

There was but the hum of motor tires crunching the road, the creak of a rocker on the Howlands' porch, the slap of a hand attacking a mosquito, a heat-weary conversation starting and dying, the precise rhythm of crickets, the thud of moths against the screen sounds that were a distilled silence. It was a street beyond the end of the world, beyond the boundaries of hope.

Sinclair Lewis - Main Street