Fog is not only density. A blurred-out vision,perplexed, unsure, hands groping toward the next living being, makes us human in the fog. A connection, a voice that bursts yet somehow bleeds, a spooky love appearing out of blue, a croon, a touch unforeseen—a clue rising through the brain’s soft haze, the next unborn line breaking through when the fog is finally gone. Yet last time, our fleet,our honeymoon, a mass cancellation of flights in fog occurred that dead October. I screamed and struck the coffee table, as though the blow could turn you cold and blue. We parted ways when fog grew bleak, and nothing stayed but one long shriek. 7 December, 2025