JOURNAL OF DEREK RAYNEMonday, 7 April - on trail
Nothing to write, besides it’s too dark and I can’t waste the torch battery. Hard, too, because the blisters on my hands are breaking and leaving them raw. Rebandaging them is almost useless.
All day and into the night, I just slog through the mud. I fall in the mud. I sit in the mud. I sleep in the mud. I shall never be clean or dry again. Some people go to spas to take mud baths. I shall never be one of them. What a joke. I’m probably going to fall and suffocate in the stuff. Then, come the dry season, it can just harden over me and become my grave. It might be better than being supper for the local wildlife. I doubt the pistol would work now should I need it. I have never known such darkness. It is so silent and yet there are so many small, lonely, living sounds.
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