Critique-It

The summer air was warm and thick, congealed in the afternoon haze. My hot breath hung limp about me, coddling my pores with sticky stupor. The occasional breeze cut through the sunlight and silence, stiffening the skin on my arms. My conscience was sprawled out a few inches away, unconcerned with the heat and the wind, gazing straight up into the slow-moving clouds, reduced to a languor, from our spot on the rooftop. "Maybe," he said, "we should return it." The silence had become so penetrating that his voice shook me from several layers of thought.  I had, of course, been thinking -- but of what? The loose ends of my neurons wer