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It smells like overheated air - the kind that shimmers above the asphalt when the city exhales with exhaustion. The words seem to melt away, leaving behind only a pulse and a heat that doesn't go away. Everything has been said a long time ago, but my mouth still whispers, "over." As if, if you repeat it one more time, the past will obediently dissolve into the hum of the speakers. There is neither anger nor forgiveness here - only the heat, sticky and viscous, like August. The rhythm is soothing, like an old fan murmuring its last breath. And in this "heat," it's not just the temperature. It's a memory that can't be cooled by time or distance.