It was the hottest night he could remember.

The covers had been kicked off the futon, which was soaked in sweat. The ceiling fan hummed monotonously, making him drowsy in the heat. He sat up with a sigh and wiped wet pearls away from his dark eyes, smoothing sticky hair from his face. Grabbing his pack of cigarettes he settled himself out in the balcony, the thin yukata covering what needed to be covered from the moon and anyone still awake. When he inhaled, he felt the smoke curling in his lungs, settling and rotting and killing him. When he exhaled, the smoky shapes were dreams of fire and deserts and dancing figures he had long ago forgotten.

And there was no rain.

He leaned against the filthy, sun-warmed railing, watching his cigarette burn into ash along with himself. The moon was swollen and expecting and the stars glimmered mockingly in the cloudless, inky-black ocean above him. Three months and no rain. There were fans all over the town now- in bars and shops and cafes and houses and apartments. He looked back behind him, into the small room illuminated by the moon.

A tiny kitchenette in the corner. A small fridge. A door leading to the tiny bathroom. The futon. A few piles of clothing and other things.

And books- oh, many, many books. Books he's bought, been given, found, stolen. Books filled with words and languages and images and old letters and dried, pressed flowers. Black and white and filled with their own color. There was a small table, low and hidden beneath more books and ink and manuscripts and empty pages and pens and pencils. A few photographs of himself in places he didn't know he'd been to.

Three months and no rain and no memory.

He inhaled and felt himself become smoke and exhaled and felt himself die. The cigarette burnt out. He lit another one, watched the lighter flicker with poison and more heat, something everyone was tired of. The hot, dry, evaporated August heat that wasn't humid at all, like it should have been. The heat that closed shops at half past two and that burnt the soles of sandals and feet. The heat that led him to stand out there, watching himself become smoke and die. The heat that ticked like time and life.

He found a little hair tie on the floor by the door and pulled his hair off his neck, feeling only slight relief as it evaporated and cooled his skin. He was almost out of cigarettes, food, milk, and clean clothing. He was almost out of power orbs for the ceiling fan and kitchenette and lights. He needed more paper, more books.

The rain would come, the people said.

And when the rain fell, it would fill him with memory.