Florida wraps its heat around my throat like the scratchiest, sweatiest scarf until I forget there’s anything else, and it works like this every year, mistakes and monotony soaking in the weight of the weather to get heavier and heavier.  My spells don’t work as well here; consequences assemble to swelter under Southern sunshine.  When autumn nears and one morning wrings the air dry again, instinct flings my door open early for the first rush of tolerable oxygen in months.  I breathe in bursts of home for a week straight while others trade tank tops for sweatshirts and shiver at each sharp, sweet breeze.  Nicotine, reluctant, fills young lungs molded far from here, but the rush is inferior.  Smog and wind come cooler, remind me that steel peaks will emerge from inside a cloud again, roaring engines streaking me across their skyline to settle me somewhere central for as long as it takes.  I’ll ramble down ribbons of concrete for days, follow gut-rumbling whiffs of tomatoes roasting in beds of cheese, bubbling in their fresh dough, to find myself at a gray beach a thousand miles from the nearest ocean.  The old thrill of wisdom will fill every limb like the opposite of smoke, like the smart spark of some better choice: burn my bad year down, be well enough to sip plain city wind and feel cool.  Still at this distance, I become aware of the chemical and the natural and how they like to hide in cups and dance my stare dizzy until I can’t tell which is in which, and I drink up that one self I was supposed to kill.  She fills me.  Soon home won’t let her in.