Nineteenth of April
Sometimes there are birds in the sky, first thing in the morning. You'd think there wouldn't be any animals left, but there are. I counted five of them. I think they're pigeons, but I can't...
The doc won't lend me her binoculars to take a closer look, either.
Anatole won't leave me alone. But it's not... weird. He's not weird about it. I just don't fucking. I don't understand it. And I'm not gonna ask 'cause that's a whole can of worms I don't want to open. He's not standing over my shoulder reading this, though. He's in the hall outside my door. Pacing. I don't know if he's gotten any sleep. I've been in and out since we got back at daylight.
And I'm just hungry all the time now. We have food but it's not enough. I don't think it's enough.
And we're fucking low on coffee.
And my knees hurt.
And typing is getting hard with these cloth wraps around my fingers. I scraped them up something awful on some rusted metal beams yesterday, and I'm hoping they don't get infected.
God. I really hate Mondays.