Saturday, February 02, 2013
This is not the kind of fog that makes you think of living in a cloud. It's no soft, light muting of the world. This is a stalking fog. It's the kind of fog you can walk in for twenty minutes because it waits, following, never drawing attention to itself, until suddenly it embraces you and you find yourself chilled to the bone, with wringing-wet hair.
On the way back from the grocery, the fixed yellow lights along the highway are sharply spaced pins holding this reality in place, anchoring it against the breathing swells of movement in the fog.
Where would it take us if we came undone?