Mantled in mist.

There was a fog upon this day, one cool and light and grey.

And things are seen within, their shapes an elusive dimension, without depth and definition. But they're there, and you know. How to find that definition, to burn off mystery, is a shining path perhaps not preferred. A fog is good. This one fell heavy and stuck fast on my brow, hazing all my glances. I could not see as well, but could then feel how well I was seen and seeing. Through a fog, a soft silhouette. Unmoving and demanding, and never quite what is thought. You can see in that fog, in its objects' soft immanence, the weary refresh, the hardness of their truth.