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The writer believes he is finally dying of the sickness ravaging the valley, caught despite his lonely hut far from civilization, an irony that would make him laugh if laughing did not hurt so much.
He vomits often, and his hands have turned black and stiff so he can barely hold the quill.
Saint Tyna's convent is minutes away and its nuns might help, but he is too weak to walk today; perhaps tomorrow he will feel stronger. Perhaps.