The blood runs down my forearm in drops, falling into the dry earth I am walking on. I have found earth at last.

Since I woke up, I keep my hand on the cut, trying to stop the bleeding and the pain.

At this point, writing these notes almost makes no sense: I don’t think anyone else will ever fall down here.
These are not notes for anyone, just letters I write to myself on anonymous blank sheets of paper forgotten inside a server.

I left the glasses I thought I remembered are still where I left them when I fell, with broken lenses and cracked frames. In any case I wouldn’t have seen much else down here.

With my arm, warm and damp between my fingers, for the first time I’m sensing that it doesn’t matter if the fear I feel, for what I will find, is quarantined just like me.