The fog came in today, not mysterious and menacing, but comforting as it blanketed the oak trees turning them into deep gray lace.
The chill of the damp air can chill the bones, or wake the spirit depending on your point of view.
Werewolves find the fog exceedingly romantic. I suppose the same goes for those who write grand Gothic romances. But in the Gothic romance it is something to be rescued from or something to escape into. For me it just is.
There are times, more often than not, when things just are. Fog is like that.
In the morning the lake at the end of my street is blanked in fog to the point I can’t see the water. I hear birds and occasional coyotes and bicyclists from the bluffs above. The damp air surrounds me and makes me feel alive. No warm beating hearts can match what…
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