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 Fifty Four

The days pass, one after the other, all seeming much the same. That is a comfort as much as it is a horror. What if all day’s are the same in the end? What meaning would all this have then?

Take pleasure in the simplest things in life it is said. The repetition of everything, these eternal cycles. The sun rising and setting, the passing of hours. Of such things a day is made. Someday they may no longer hold.

We have forgotten so much. No longer do we remember what it was like when everything was crumbling, seeming destined to fall into utter ruin. Now it seems we may be approaching that precipice again and we have no experience to bring to it. That was lost long ago.

In the Quarter all that remains in the end is the wind and the grassy plains. The rest, all those who have passed through, are worn away as the years go by until no signs are left that they were ever there at all.

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