Foggy. It is unbelievably foggy outside. A fern, backlit grey by the neighbor's floodlight, stretches high with drooping leaves dripping with sweaty rain. With the dulling fog, it makes me think of the jungles of lands long out of reach by everything but feet.

Down the road, Henry's gas station is almost hidden. A small smear of yellow blinks every now and then, the brightly lit welcoming sign promising milk and bread. Sometimes, the grey glows white in circles as cars inch by. And it is cold... cold like it has been for a long time, but it hasn't.

This is not a night to travel. This is not a night for a lot of things.

I wonder what was buried today, how fresh, how stale, how forgotten and hidden. Do things rot faster buried under rot, sour earth? Do they slow in false hope, speed in false race? Turning loose under the same noose, does the hanged man smile at the bite, at the long coming spite?

  ¶ 3:13 AM