Damn that bead of sweat; the one that hangs on the tip of your nose, taunting you.
The one you lick away, only to have it replaced by another.
The one that forms on your brow and remains indecisive, before dripping into your eye - stinging all the way.
The one that forms out of pure fear, prickling your temple.
Hot or cold, all sweat is the same: no matter the situation.
Perhaps the worst is the sweat you can’t wipe away because you’re hanging from a tightrope by your fingers, waiting for rescue to come.
But you know it won’t.