Four Pauses

1. The shivering cold has long since gone.  I am still to take off my jackets.  The heat has already started to generate in my body.  I feel every cells carrying exothermic reactions inside me.  I am starting to feel cooked.  Oh, please, no scorching sun now!  No!  No!
2. The dazzling reflection coming from the papers have teared me, not as a result of emotions but as a result of biological response.  I can't open my eyes, neither can I flush the beam.  With corrugated eyebrow, I close my eyes as hard as I could, as quickly as I could.
3. The lines I get to write sporadically when the sun fades are not still to find some rhythm.  Rhythm lies in reader, argues one.  Rhythm is a must thing to writer, I insist. 
4. Each breath creates a freshness in me as my breath resonates with flowing air.  The nitrogen dominated air, though odorless, is pleasant and fresh on its own right; though colorless, colorful on its own reflections; though tasteless, delicious on its own flavor.