In dense fog, my walking companions often bemoan the lack of a view. I, however, treasure the rare moments when the onslaught on my senses is highly reduced.
When I see very little, but vague shapes and fragments. When I hear nothing, but my own steps. When I smell only the moist air itself.
It’s like walking in another world, or through a gateway, where anything may appear when you come out on the other side.


There is a silence where hath been no sound,
There is a silence where no sound may be,
In the cold grave—under the deep deep sea,
Or in the wide desert where no life is found,
Which hath been mute, and still must sleep profound;
No voice is hush’d—no life treads silently,
But clouds and cloudy shadows wander free,
That never spoke, over the idle ground:
But in green ruins, in the desolate walls
Of antique palaces, where Man hath been,
Though the dun fox, or wild hyena, calls,
And owls, that flit continually between,
Shriek to the echo, and the low winds moan,
There the true Silence is, self-conscious and alone.

~ Thomas Hood ~