Why is it so hot all the time

“Hot as.” “Yeah.” We melt through the city in an ill-conceived attempt to find a toaster. Doomed from when we got in the car; the tongue of your seatbelt branded into your chest; there was a scene. The aircon in your car is on annual leave (Prague, with regards) so I fan us with my mother's scented sandalwood. We’re listening to Tame Impala and though I pretend to hate them, you know I know all the words. Failing to find a parking spot in the multi storey we park your shitheap in a fifteen minute spot on Beaufort, later returning to find it bristling with so many tickets it looks alive. It’s summer in the city. There are goths suffering in summer leisure goth, which is the same all year round, juvies screaming past in cheap fluoro appaz totes magsy, a bum dying on the sidwalk outside Chanel from dehydration. I watch but don’t intervene as a western suburbs honey pauses to sprinkle him with perfume. We hit Myer and spend so long drifting like stunned flies in the aircon that eventually we are asked to leave and forget to buy a toaster.