Nuit et Brouillard

Nights and fog have been particularly cruel and beautiful this winter.
In the daytime we're too busy with the rigors of daily life and our own insignificant complaints while the nights are busy snatching people up in their grip and stealing them away. There are also times when the fog obscures our visions and sometimes, lets us see things clearly.
I woke up this morning feeling like it had descended into us and was choking us, driving slow next to the river, mind buzzing with things half done and ideas too quickly forgotten, cursing that escapes with fogbreath.
At night, as I snuck out of the comfort of my artificial heat-dazed environs, Goldflake in hand, I could just shut everything out and listen. Dripping taps, snoring parents, stray dog emerging from the gali to look for leftovers, tree branches dancing to themselves, men still at work far off in the street. Everything is swathed in the same mist that traps the lights and steals their hues. Smoke and fog are the same.
The concept of time and space is lost when you live in a cloud.
"At the edges of the world, the salt water is cold enough to burn"

(for another time and another place. Girl ain't nothing but a willow tree)