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 Five

I’ve got eyes for you, tucked away in the closet, sealed in a cardboard box. The tape holding it shut is wearing, it hardly sticks anymore. I have peeled it back so many times to pull them out and study them.

Divorced from their sockets, their natural habitat, they are strange things. Not so round as you would think, a little misshapen at the back, with that odd nerve extending out. They have the look of flesh about them, but of course they are not. I pull them out on occasion and roll them about in my fingers, like marbles that I might play with.

This is no game though. You will recall what is owed. I have not forgotten and I see all my debts paid, in blood or otherwise. We will meet again, through happenstance or otherwise, and then we will see this through to its conclusion.

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