pigeons fly across the brick paved plaza. the lampposts, some leaning, stand sentry, although their light has long since gone dormant. the dull grey scud across the sky lowers, ominously bearing down upon the squat dun-coloured buildings. awkward spaces are sparsely poulated with awkward people. it was better before the fog burned off; at least the mystery of what may be hidden within was appealing. earlier, the dog and i took our morning walk. opening the door to the side yard revealed a dimly lit space between the two houses. although the area is broad and deep, the density of the morning mist did not allow the sun to cast light; neither were there shadows. the late winter grass was further drabbed by the slight amount of frost upon its dry brown blades. the whole draining of colour allowed the grey trees, stretching their empty knarled fingers to the leaden sky, to meld into one whole, indistinguishable from the morning shroud. the longing for the sea and sand on mornings like this is strong indeed. to feel the wrappings of the fogbank, more dense and without objects disturbing its continuity, is to feel both safe and vulnerable: the fog can only obscure. the sense of enclosure within the nebulousness is akin to some minor deprivation of the senses, a greyness drawn over them, directing the focus inward...