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 Ninety Nine

It has been cloudy most of the day, a strange and vast bank of clouds hovering above and seemingly immovable. There is not even a whisper of a breeze, so rare for the Lost Quarter. The air is humid as it never is in this dry land, though no rain seems imminent.

It all seems ominous, a portent of some approaching doom. I am left restless, chasing my thoughts to nowhere. A feeling I am left with so many days now, especially with my love returned to her tower to work. She was the anchor of my days and now I find myself adrift, flitting from idea to idea and settling upon none of them.

The feeling has come upon me again, with a kind of weight that seems to press against me. The terrible knowledge that our battle with the dread lord shall be a long while yet, its resolution unclear, and there is little I can do to change that. It ebbs and flows, most days never touching my thoughts, until finally the totality of it strikes me anew.

The world we knew is gone, never to come back; the world to come is still out of focus, unrealized, waiting to be shaped. Which of us shall get to do the shaping?

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