August in Appalachia

You're sweating. You know that it's not possible for humidity to be greater than 100%, but it feels about 150. Your body is a solute moving through the heavy air, ready to drop from suspension into a puddle on the ground, mid-step. You are more a cloud than a solid: as you breathe and perspire there is no well-defined boundary between your self and the teeming nature around. It goes in you and you go in it. The day would be even hotter in the direct sun, your fluids cooking out faster than you can replenish them, but the dappled sunlight filtering through the overgrowth isn't a problem. All you can see is green and brown, mostly still, not bright and not shadowed. The chorus of crickets and other chirping insects is so loud that you feel you would have to shout, if you wanted to speak to a hypothetical someone standing near you. But there is no one else there, and you don't want to speak to anyone. If you stay here for much longer, you might just fade out into the moisture and nonsentient, writhing life, another animal in the forest, telling no tales, satisfied and certain.