Notes on the Grippe

Being an accounting of the recent and continuing pandemic and its various circumstances, from the perspective of an inhabitant of the regions lately called the Lost Quarter. Dates unknown.

Day Ten

The sky is bright and cloudless, the air crisp. I look out upon empty streets, only a few stray souls passing by.

There are plants on the shelf, leaning toward the beam of sunlight coming through the window and stretching itself across the floor, their verdant leaves so alive.

Above where I sit there is a map, on yellowing paper, of the Lost Quarter. The lines of its borders and roads are sharply defined, far more than they are in the world itself. It has its own topography, standing apart from reality, and if I close my eyes I can be walking upon those strange roads.

I breathe. My feet heavy on the worn carpet of this room. The air fills my chest. I can feel it going into my very depths and then back the way it came.

A magpie floats by the window outside catching my eye. I watch it dance upon the air.

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