The Greenland Diaries: Day 52

Last night, during the drumming, I wanted to count how many times something brushed against the shed and crawled along the walls of my smashed house. The shed doesn’t have any real protection from anything, but I’ve had too many encounters at the house for me to feel comfortable there. The shed isn’t too bad. A bunch of beetles and centipedes meander their way in from the grassy edges between the silver metal and ground. I stuffed blankets there and sprayed some insecticide I stole from the house next door. It didn’t really help too much. A centipede still ran across my face like a third eyebrow.

Today, I emptied the entire shed of all its tools and stuffed them inside the hollow walls of the basement. It was a noisy procedure, and a few of them jostled backwards as I carried them, hitting me in the face. It’s been a while since I’ve sworn to myself. Spades, rakes, and other garden tools I never bothered to acquaint myself with now have a permanent home downstairs. I feel like I’m burying a piece of the past or something, even though I never used these tools, but my girlfriend did. She had a lush garden just opposite the shed in our backyard. It’s been overgrown by lines of vines and ivory flowers.

On every surface the sun hits, flowers are blooming in strange patterns and colors, like an endless jewelry box sprinkled on top of everything.

More oven-air and hot breezes today, I’m not sure it’ll ever change. I keep on mentioning it like it should, but it never does. If things stay this consistent during the days, I’m going to have to start exploring houses again with or without Gerald. His behaviors have been a little erratic recently; basically, he’s been talking to himself and staggering around the green roads. We should be stocking up on food and water from other houses, and I want to ask him about it, but his eyes look so yellow now, and his lips are always dry.

I’ve saved the battery on both my iPod and laptop for when my mind truly gets desperate for a piece of the old world. I’ve huddled all my old pictures and favorite books inside the shed. I swept the brick floor out and threw down pillows and chairs. I made a cozy little bed for Snowy out of my old clothes and rigged the door not to open from the outside with wide chains. I found them in someone’s garage across the alley. I feel slightly bad pillaging and rummaging through people’s stuff, but the situation isn’t necessarily ideal for manners.

Tonight, for the Drum, I’ll watch the hammering darkness from my tin box. I’ve been watching the shadows from a peephole in the wall facing my house. I’ll have to limit my gawking. I feel like the whites of my eyes shine so fearfully in the haze, that the monsters could pick them up blocks away.

I guess Gerald isn’t the only one feeling paranoid.

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