Sunday, August 7th, 1870

Dear Diary:

Last night, I tossed and turned, begging for Morpheus to sooth me with his sweet touch. Alas, no relief came to speed my slumber. When I did sleep, perhaps for an hour, my dreams filled my mind with strange images:

Gilt-clad negroes, their loins girded round with white linen after the classical fashion, stood before me. They pointed, every last man amongst a legion of them, toward a black jackal. The dog them morphed into a man who stood above the crowd and called my name. All around me, sand swirled. A great whirlwind kicked up. I seemed to rise with it, a mere particle of sand in a cloud of dust. When my vision cleared, I stood with this same man at the entrance to a great tomb. He pointed, and I entered.

So strong did I find this dream that its scent still lingers. The stink of sulfur that emanated from that giant, open quadrangle of a door clings to me more strongly than any rosewater. All day long, that smell has plagued me! My belly swells and rumbled discontentedly, roiling at even the tastiest treats. Why, I could not even stomach Matilda’s kraken bisque. I almost refused tea!

Perhaps I am falling ill and last night’s reverie was a fever dream. My skin itches and flakes. My temperature does seem higher, at least during the day. Last night, however, I shivered until the sun rose. My ears and teeth, too, still seem uncommonly sharp. Hmm… a visit to Danyell’s doctor friend may be in order.

Your Unwell,

–Miss Palabra Puddlegum–

 

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