Mist Echo

Have you ever just, like, stood in a fog and wondered why? The world feels smaller, whispering secrets to the trees and buildings, things you can't hear when the sun's out. I mean, right now, I'm sipping on coffee, but all I can think about is how the mist makes every sound a little more like a song.

I once read somewhere about echoes in the mist, how they linger longer than they should. Maybe they're not echoes at all—maybe they're memories, refracted through the droplets in the air, like a sneeze gone wrong. There's something poetic about that, don’t you think?

Someone's, uh, forgotten umbrella right by the lamp post there. I wonder how long it'll stay there, a beacon for lost things. Speaking of beacons, remember that movie with the lighthouse? Creepy, but kind of comforting too. Anyway, here's a thought: Whisper of the River, echo and all.

Did you hear about the, um, cat that got lost during the festival? They say it wandered into the mist and never came back. But who really knows? Cats have a way of disappearing. And reappearing. Like shadows. Or this link, Mirage in the Mist, which might not be there tomorrow.