Carl Sandburg wrote that fog “comes on little cat feet.” The incessant fog of the past week was menacing, not mewing; chilling, not cuddly. It didn’t “move on.” It stayed, stuck in its mysterious depths, its dangerous limitations, dulling yet engaging the imagination. Its hesitant, unobtrusive entrance portended danger and whitening and weakening reality. Vulnerable before sunlight’s power, it fought to assert its confused self-protective ignorance waiting for an answer to the question “Is anybody out there?”

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