Friday evening was as clear as a well used whiskey glass. The sky, ever darkening, favored us with a scene of an upside-down photograph of a rolling hillside, taken by a first year art student. At the very edge of the road, a bright light beckoned, come home. As we drove along the windy coastal road through converted industrial docks we glanced across the sound to the east. the windows along the hillside lit up like a thousand signal fires spreading warning of some unnatural force heading our way. It was if tribesmen from the past were trying to tell us to leave this unholy technological land and come back to a romanticized version of the way things were.
This morning. Fog.