Thursday, June 1st, 1967
I can hardly spare the time to write you. Four more have fallen ill, and only one has recovered. The first - the man I have written of from the beginning - fluctuates between fevered dreams and nightmarish, waking rants. He refuses food and drink, and I've no way to drug him. I find myself being called about the village at all hours, and I worry that I may stretch myself too thin. If I were to-
But such talk is neither here nor there. We've little room for the hypothetical when the actual demands so much of us. As it is, we've little room for that which makes life worth living. But we make it. We sit and we write our letters. We ask the important questions.
Speaking of which, how is our friend Mikhail? Give him my love, and this message: "I find myself remembering your spirits fondly, though I suspect that it is merely because even pigswill is preferable to nothing at all."
I don't notice the dust anymore. I've never a need to remember my mask, as I'm never in one place long enough to remove it. I fear life will remain like this until I die. Few intend to leave, even if it means death, and I am bound to them. How is-
The bell is tolling. I doubt I will have more time to write, and so I wish you all the luck you need.