Poor fellow. He must now be cursing himself for having the unit of absolute coolness named after him. It is mid-April and the heat is on. Arduous efforts to be the coolest around are intense. Fans and Flowers. Soda and straws. Sweat and sprinkles. Metaphor-trophic leeches are swelling and glistening.
It indeed is hot. The race to make it to the annals of history, rather, the books of faces and images of the present is tight. Yes, tights are sweaty. We also sweat over loose comments. A pinch of salt is unnoticed in a diabetes-inducing sea of cool lemon juice.
Oh Mr. Indra, thy chariot maketh Mumbai lose its shores. Heated discussions revolve around the city. We might not want a Victorian city after all. Stone structures heat up as fast as they become cool. They do make for nice profile picture backdrops.
Sweltering sunshine in the afternoon is soporific. Cooler nights more so. Probably, shutting off ears and the mind lock the coolness up inside. Hot ideas thus brewed. Discomfort increases when in close vicinity of other beings on very hot days. Intelligent minds or mindless creatures, everything is equally repulsive. That may well be due to those hot ideas. Run away from the furnace.
Poor Mr. Kelvin. One cool guy he was. He was the epitome of coolness. Temperature?