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 One Hundred Twenty Three
The days are warm and sunny, the best of summer. Only a few cirrus clouds passing by above, long strands of disintegrating webs. People crowd the rivers with rafts, floating along, laughing and flirting. The paths, once crowded with those seeking an escape from lockdown are quieter now as lives return somewhat to normal. The roads are busy with traffic again, people with places to go and things to do.
We must stay inside though according to the quarantine protocols. My love has a sore throat and has been tested for the presence of the grippe reborn. Until we get the results we must seclude ourselves. I will be tested tomorrow. I doubt very much the dread lord is present, but we owe it to ourselves and everyone in the Quarter to cautious.
Oddly I feel little anguish as we await her results. There was much more torment before the test as we pondered whether the dread lord might be present. Now we will know, one way or another, and can proceed accordingly.
That is the hardest part of the quarantine protocols and the dread lord’s incursion. We are left in stasis, in a holding pattern, uncertain what tomorrow or the next day will bring. Life goes on in other ways: jobs are tenuous and we grow restless to do something, anything. But it is impossible to plan for any eventualities when we do not know whether this will be over next year, or linger on for several.
My feeling is that we will be able to begin erecting strong defences against the grippe reborn next year. There will be treatments that prove at least somewhat effective. But to build up these defences will take time – it is no easy task. As a result, the dread lord will still cast a shadow upon the Quarter for some time, and we will have to find a way to endure.