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 Seven Hundred Twenty Three

A day that is neither winter nor spring, but occupying the nether regions between the two. The sky is overcast with wispy grey clouds that look as though they should dissipate under the glare of the sun, yet they persist throughout the morning chill. The streets are quiet now, with only distant sounds of traffic that disappear as abruptly as they arrive. A few people are about, rushing forward, harried with their heads down, casting nervous glances when they pass by. Above the narrow cloud of a jet stream marks borders that slowly dissolve in the sky.

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