The fog floats like a fluffy dream, a whisper tickling the trees, tickling the toes of children running after forgotten shadows. It hugs closely and pulls away gently, as if shy or maybe haughty, dancing lightly on raindrops that swell inside clothes left hanging. What do you see when you cannot see? The fog shows faces painted in mist, stories etched in silver petrichor.
- Fuzzy shapes with leaf-edge fingers strumming upon broken sidewalks.
- Without boundaries in the tender world, all colors stole their quiet light.
- A sunbeam rips open a pocket of air, echoes crop as butterflies stitch pages within hollow trees.