Fog

The fog had already begun as I opened the first bottle at James' new residence, and it continued to thicken throughout our game of Sale of the Century, shrouding the streetlights theatrically as our laughter mingled with a soundtrack of Springsteen and Dvorak. I took myself for a walk back home, setting off toward the gardens clutching my recent gift: a book on Sweden (those stunning Social Democrats). The night's third bottle, as well as its predecessors, reminded me that I wasn't likely to sleep any time soon, so I ambled amiably through the parkland and noted with piercing glee that this misty blanket had progressed significantly since the dinner party, making its slothful way around every clammy corner. The city skyline was obscured; all lights were Vaselined; and for two hours my rapidly draining camera captured small fractions of the still, gothic beauty.