Dispatches #9: Messages — No Words
Within many days it has much rain. Water overflows streets. Bodies navigate to top. Water kills still more who alive. Sirens, sounds which I have not heard in years, go with irresolute groaning everywhere in city. (My father has told to me they powered by the sun and need no man for working but how can this be?) Within these many days my beloved Fanta and I are in the basement, observing as water drops, then pours, downwards the rough walls. We should not remain here but where we should go? Sirens moan as in death, as tortured dogs. We hear beating lorries as they roar downwards streets.
At last, today, beating of rain at last stops, and I appear above to see that there should see. Moving from a shadow up to a shadow I make the way around. On the north there is a structure surrounded by a fence and a wire. Today there are the people cabled to it. They are dead. They were there many days. Their persons decay in a way which cannot be from death and weather alone. They are compressed in severity of a pain and suffering of illness. What armies have pulled them here? Whether really it is a warning? To whom it should cause anxiety? What side of the fence we should remain?
I shall not speak my beloved Fanta about it . . . she is still sick and coughs and should worry not more.
