The mist hung heavy and low today over the world as I drove North on highway 89. Figures would appear from it suddenly and out of nowhere, the way you'd expect a stranger to show up at your doorstep in the middle of the night.
When I reached home, there were lights on at the farmer's house at the end of the road, but as always, the light lacked the warm quality that fills old houses with life.
I drove up the hill and the house disappeared behind me back into the fog like a curtain being drawn quietly shut.
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