When the sun goes down, the storms begin. Every night it is like this. The storms come in waves, one following another, as regular as breathing. This lasts all night. It is impossible to sleep.

The days are worse. The air is heavy and foul, a haze is draped over everything, like a rag in a puddle. When the sun does come out for a few minutes, it makes the earth steam. Then it disappears, and the haze hangs in the sodden air.

Everything is dank. Fires are no longer possible, nothing can be kept dry.

I cannot bear this. None of us can. A few have left, a few have died. Our numbers dwindle, and we had not many at the start. A couple of young men continue to make plans, but it has become merely something to do, something to keep from listening to the endless drip drip drip. There is nowhere to go. It is too great an effort to move at all.



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