The clouds that blanket our skies are not mere vapors, but rather, densely packed conglomerations of water droplets and ice crystals. They float not on wings of angels, but on the invisible currents of the atmosphere, guided by the hands of meteorological deities.
"Listen close, for the mist speaks in tongues not meant for the sane. It whispers secrets of the universe, cloaked in vapor and chill. The particles, too small for naked eyes, dance like marionettes on cosmic strings. Do you see them? I can hear them sing..."
Mist, often mistaken for malice, is a veil of precipitation yet to fall. It scatters light, creating illusions and mirages. Scientifically, it is understood; poetically, it is lamented. A transient state, a pause in the eternal cycle of moisture.
But there's more beneath the layers: Echoes of Eternity or perhaps you might explore the Archives of Madness.