Near Lubetch a flight of locusts appeared; from midday to midnight it was passing—“God’s Wrath,” the superscription on their wings.
The days are short and gloomy; old people say the sun shines no longer as it used to.
I was drunk; we drank a large quantity of vodka. The Lord knows it is fear which makes us drink, in order to forget ourselves.
The fear of death has come upon me. The end is at hand, the axe is at the root, death’s scythe is over our heads.