Humidity has big hands and heavy feet. Sweat drags dirt down his body in long trails. Dirt dries in the cuticles of his toenails. He smells like old sheets and rotten food left on the counter in a hot kitchen. He needs to shave. Sweat twists his whiskers into leggy spiders that crawl across his sunken face. Humidity has a swollen, sickly belly that tips him to the sides when he walks across the bedroom ceiling. Humidity leans over you and blows his steamy breath across your face when you try to sleep. His breath smells like rotten teeth and a dry yellow tongue. Pieces of his tongue slough off on your face and fall behind your neck. Humidity sits on your shoulder and bangs out an irregular rhythm with his heavy feet. He worms into your ear and taps louder and your ear pulses. Your body is heavy and too worn out to be angry, but if it weren’t so tired, your body would be getting into a car and heading off to a pawn shop to buy a gun and shoot a round up at the goddamned clouds that refuse to rain and release this heavy heat that’s rolling the world around in limp sheets at 4:30 in the morning.