It is a very foggy morning, this one. As I drive to work everything is swathed and enveloped in a silent, mysterious white nothingness. Familiar landscape is turned into a surrealist print. Ordinary trees are transformed into ghostly, whited-out shapes, more gray than green and two-dimensional as cardboard cutouts. We drive on and on into nothingness and as we approach it resolves itself into misted but more solid shapes. We are transmuted into adventurers pioneering into the unknown, on our ordinarily ordinary commute to work. Everything seems silent, as if the fog has stripped away sound in its campaign to make the world as obscure as possible. Fog nearly drips from everything. The world is a glorious damp whiteness.
It won't last long--soon the sun will come and gradually the fog will dissolve away. A pity. For I like the world with fog taken over, for a time. . .