1 a.m. Aug. 8. The fan is bathing me in cool sweeps. I’ve run out of Fiji water and watermelon cubes. I’m hallucinating.

It’s 92 degrees in Albion and Falmouth. That’s Christmas Eve in L.A., wedding weather in Georgia. Call Stacy Abrams, see if she’s awake.

OMG, isn’t this the Pine Tree State, Vacationland, cool beaches, deep shady woods, and the Paul J. Schupf Art Center? Call NSA.

I see workers are putting the finishing touches on the Paul J. Schupf Art Center. Shouldn’t they be wearing short-shorts and waving Arabian fans at passing ladies?

2 a.m. I turn up the fan. Need I remind readers that tourists who spend big like New Yorkers, Bostonians and even Texans come here to swim and eat lobster and wait for the Paul J. Schupf Art Center to open? ( I love saying that.)

2:10 a.m. My front yard looks like a parking lot at a crematorium. Nobody’s moving.

I’ve filled my two bird fountains six times this week. Even the dreaded caterpillars have come to drink.

3 a.m. Is this the end of the world? I think about those Mainers out in China worrying about their wells. Wells?

I can’t believe people still have wells, what do they do when they dry up? Stop wishing? Send some water trucks out there. I should call Dana Wilde.

3:10 a.m. Everything is drying up. Out West they’re finding bodies at the bottom of Lake Mead in Nevada. Not kidding. Bodies and shopping baskets. This is a true story. Mead is so low they’re finding baby strollers and a WW2 bomber that crashed there. A WW2 bomber?

Where was that bomber headed? To carpet bomb the last show at the Flamingo? There’s no respect for show business.

3:30 a.m. I remove pajamas, look away.

3:57 a.m. I hear the squirrels panting.

Do you think Jimmy Hoffa is in Lake Mead? Should we be sending Amy Calder and Michael G. Seamans to find out?

4 a.m. I saw the Messalonskee Stream drying up today. How long before we find a body or a gun down there? Has anyone seen Dana Wilde lately?

4:32 a.m. I turn and check my phone news.

Rome today just hit 105 degrees. Now you know why Pope Frank wears white. Pope Frank has been ill, but it’s not “you know what.” Don’t say it. Just HONK.

Besides, what kind of God would give the Pope HONK. I said don’t say it. She’s awake and can hear.

5:26 a.m. She’s in the bathroom. She can’t sleep either. 92 degrees?

In my 40 years here on the banks of the First Rangeway, we’ve suffered some hot days, but this heat wave comes at a time when HONK has all our nerves frazzled. (HONK still replacing “you know what.” Family orders.)

5:40 a.m. This past week I hallucinated until 3 in the morning, thinking about Peter O’Toole out there in Morocco, hugging Omar Sharif.

Peter was stunning in those flowing white gowns. I can understand that, at least until Labor Day.

I remember seeing “Lawrence of Arabia” when it opened on Dec. 16, 1962, in New York. She and I had been married only a year, and I mentioned that robe.

She said I could go live with Peter O’Toole before she’d let me wear that garment. But then she might be interested in living with O’Toole.

6 a.m. The sun is coming up and I can’t feel my toes. Still 92 degrees? What? It’s what? Hello?

J.P. Devine is a Waterville writer.