There is much lamenting and beating of breasts in the land of Spain. The Seasons no longer move; the crops have withered; the herds have starved; men and women grow old and decrepit but do not die; children are no longer born. Our land is blighted. We are drowning in the dust of once living things. Despair is our new death; mortality has taken on a new vicious form, no longer mercifully slaying us in our weakness, but carving away at our bodies and minds until only the shallow stagnant pool of utter self hatred remains.
I am the only one who still cares enough to worry and hope and hate myself for giving in. No one travels. I still travel. I have tried to get as far away from the deathly-alive villages as I can, but each time I am driven to the next sorrowful gathering of spiteful corpses. They do not eat, but they do not die. I do not need to eat either, but I do anyways. I am beginning to wonder why. I have gone for weeks in the wasteland without food, and when I find some rotted morsel from an unreachable past I eat it
but it gives me no satisfaction. My teeth are loose or gone. I long ago cut off my hair in despair, and it has not grown back at all. My clothes would not stay on my bony body, and I ceased attempting to keep them on. The most peculiar thing--my fingernails and toenails have fallen out. My toes are bloody. As long as they keep bleeding I will keep walking.
I have seen a few foreigners in this long journey of mine, wanderers such as myself. We do not speak to each other, nor do we need to; a brief glance, an agonizing squint of suffocating hope is enough to tell us we are the same in our hopes and fears, and that we must continue looking.
Soon I will become like my countrymen. I know my will is dying. I do not have much time left to say this, and I am not sure you are the one who I must say it too, or if there is such a person, but I must try:
Help us.