Do you hear them? The whispers of the fog? They cling to the trees, wrap around your ankles, and follow you home like a lost puppy. You step into the grayness, and there’s a voice—soft, raspy, like it’s been two weeks since it had a drink. It tells you stories of things you should never know. How the moon is just a giant, hollow ball, filled with forgotten dreams. How the stars are actually eyes, watching, judging, and sometimes laughing when you’re not looking.
You try to focus, but the words slip like sandcastles washed away by waves. The lunatic, probably seated somewhere on a sodden log, has the craziest tales over the campfire. Tales of journeys through the mist where up becomes down, and right is whatever direction you’re not facing. The fog laughs too, shushing the rational mind until all that’s left are echoes of giggles and nonsense rhymes.
There’s a rhythm to these tales, a beat like a heart that’s thumping out of sync with your own. Ever heard of the clock that ticks backward? Builds a day in reverse, while you age less and less until you’re not even there at all. It’s all in the fog, you see. All in the murmurs and mumbles, all in the ceaseless shiver of the mystical mist.