"Ours is essentially a tragic age, so we refuse to take it tragically. The cataclysm has happened, we are among the ruins, we start to build up new little habitats, to have new little hopes. It is rather hard work : there is now no smooth road towards the future, but we go round, or scramble over the obstacles. We've got to live, no matter how many skies have fallen."

D.H. Lawrence, Lady Chatterley's Lover

June 6, 2024.

After Covid, Covid again.

Three times the author of this chronicle has had to fight with covid 19.

The last time was May 29, 2024, when it fell upon me again.

One mean, nasty virion.

Don't you undersestimate the wily bastard.

It's been conceived juste like a dreadful military campaign.

First it sneaks into your territorial system, unknown to you.

Then it disguises itself as a minor attack, one of no importance. A vulgar "cold".
In the meantime, it invests your lines of self-defence, without your understanding.

It sort of paralyzes your capacities to react. Slowly but surely.

Then, it strikes. And leaves you breathless, helpless.

Your oxygen level is in free fall, but you don't realize.

From 98-99% it plummets to 94-93. You don't breathe so well, but a high-pitch fever coupled with a heavy headache prevents you from being lucid. Once it dives under 92% you're in trouble. Big trouble under 90%.

Time for the ventilator blues then, if you get lucky to be carried away to a place where they have them, with cylinders of oxygen.