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.
I wish I lived in your world.
Suppose Peat Bog Man goes by with 4 hours since his last meal. How do you wave at him and explain across the language barrier that he’s only 4 more hours from his death?
My luck, a fricking SUV would go by. There goes the night.
The OP is a glaring example of unfettered literacy among the masses. Books are EEEEEE-VUL. They give people ideas. fuel the imagination, and stuff. Worse than that mariju-crack-crystal-acid the kids are smoking these days. The OP is probably a Witch! I say if the OP weighs more than a duck, we burn the OP. Burn! BURN!
No. I live near a couple square miles of marsh with a river cutting through. I wanted to make an addition tonight, but the rain, hail, and tornado made me lose the mood.
“The monster opened its great toothed mouth and the sound that came from it was the sound of the Fog Horn itself. Lonely and vast and far away. The sound of isolation, a viewless sea, a cold night, apartness.”
