The air is thick and heavy with the intoxicating scent of flowers, -ias and -ies whose names I’ve never much cared to learn. I feel the sweat running down my face, coats already beading upon my skin and no matter how hard I try, a wipe with my hand will not make me feel any less sticky, nor any more hygienic. Each breathe feels as though I’m trying to inhale more water than air, and the clothing mats to my skin as I keep walking. The air is still, not a car in sight, and the only sounds are my laboured breaths, rhythmic and shallow. My thoughts reverberate off the walls of my head, occasionally something distracting me back into reality. Whatever I last consumed isn’t sitting well in the pit of my stomach, and the last 5 miles are catching up with me; my feet want out of this predicament.