I remember this poem about a guy who was just lying on his bed watching his ceiling fan spin.  He could hear children playing outside, but he wasn’t going to move.  Just lie there, watch the ceiling fan spin.  

I can feel that poem.  I can feel the oppressive heat and oppressive weight.  All that sound comes in through the window filtered.  Muted, but too loud.  That’s what I feel:  weighted.  That’s what I hear: muted.

But I still love that poem.  It’s one of the most beautiful ideas I can think of.