Fog cluttered the air like autumn leaves on a forest floor, or the many pages of an unfinished book. The sun had already begun to set, and evening chased her tail. Shadows loomed, large and small, concealing creatures of dreams that hid within the fog. Nothing could be seen that had a true form. Sight was drawn back once more to a bizarre land of the inner mind. Realms which had been just previously out of sight were again made visible by the very same murkiness which concealed all else. Hopes took solid form, and fears set distant figures. Only noise cut through the clouds, and the only noise was the stompstomp of two heavy shoes and the feet inside them...
Quotes / An Elegy for the Still-living