The cold fog erased the distance this morning, and a hazy whiteness hung around for most of the day, lending a certain, undefinable strangeness to the air. This is possibility weather. Anything can happen. The less we see, the more options we have waiting out there beyond the limits of our vision.

Now, darkness has joined the cold, erasing more than even the fog can, and I'm warm inside, reading a novel about the end of the world, which continues to be either an unintentional or a subconscious literary theme of late, since I just now caught the thematic connection to the two books I wrote about a couple of posts back. Either way, it's a subject which has always fascinated me, not because I even remotely want it to happen, but from a sociological interest in the human factor involved in such a shattering event.

Now, back to reading.

Currently listening to: Thomas Bel "The Birds are still the Monarchs"