So... this is what melting feels like.
Apparently the decision was made to cook the Esplanade Laurier tenants in an attempt to appease the bloodthirsty Kyoto deities and/or the UAALR (Underwater Alliance for the Advancement of Lobster Retribution). There's no other plausible explanation for why we'd be encased in this fiery hell.

My socks are drenched with warm pedijuice, which I am tempted to drink in desperation of quenching this inhuman thirst. My tongue is dry, like a piece of gum stuck under a desk (perhaps for safekeeping until the next day?) and long forgotten. Steam streams out of all our bodily orifices in a cacophony of whistles, a veritable symphony of boiling human kettles.

Farewell, wretched world! I'm relocating to the land of the ice and snow, from the midnight sun where the hot springs blow.