Keys Disease

I've got a bad case of Keys Disease. I don't want to accomplish much of anything. It's hot and humid, too hot to sit around the house working on the computer. I need to be outside in the breeze, preferably in sight of the ocean where I can hear the wind whipped surf and take a dip when I get too warm. I am hypnotized by the sun poured like liquid silver on the surface of the water. I have baked my brain. I can barely put a sentence together, and that's before happy hour. Write a book? I swear on Ernest Hemingway's ghost it's just impossible. A friend who has spent the past 20 winters down here calls it Keys Disease. And even he isn't immune. Most people lose track of the date or the day of the week, but it's so laid back here that when I asked my friend if the weather would change much in March and he said. "What month is it?"