The fog is rolling in and I have far to go.
Tonight is one of those special nights. I live on the edge of a marsh and the fog is rolling in. I love when the fog moves in like this. It’s so gothic. I’ll take off the rose coloured glasses and put on the smoked glass pair. Now if the coyotes start howling I can pretend that I live on the Moors and the Hell hound of the Baskerviles is out there prowling in the night. Maybe one of the Amish will ride by and I’ll be back in Victorian England as a cabby rides by and Dr. Nikola steps from the shadows of the nearby portico. A launch may go by and I’m on Lime Street surrounded by Coulees and opium dens, waiting for Nayland Smith to give the signal to raid the hideaway of Fu Manchu. An owl hoots and I’m on the byou, and the gators are sliding through the quiet waters, while poachers hunt them down. Fireflies light here and there and I’m watching the torches of a Voodoo procession winding the secret paths around the quicksands through the morass.