Storms and haze

When the sun goes down, the storms begin. Every night is like this. They come in waves, one then the next, regular as breathing. Goes on all night. Impossible to sleep.

Days are worse: air heavy and foul, fog draped over everything, a filthy rag soaking in a puddle. When the sun does come out, the earth steams. But then it is gone, and the haze hangs in the sodden air.

Everything is soaked.

I cannot bear this. None of us can. Our numbers dwindle, one by one — some leave, some die — and we hadn't many to start. Some of the young ones try to make plans, but only as something to do, something to keep from listening to the endless drip drip drip. Nowhere to go. Too much effort to move at all.