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A feeling of being watched; an eerie chill; the sensation of being pursued, if only by the sound of my own footsteps--this is the nature of fog.
Prying, snooping, inquiring of my coat sleeves and sticking its unwelcome nose into my pockets, seeking to chill each and every finger through.
Clammy and cold, it plasters my hair to my head as surely as would a pot of glue.
Everything is shrunken, compressed; even the sky is lower. I feel it slide past my face. I, too, feel shorter: I must stoop so as not to bump my head on the artificial ceiling.
Colors are somber and repressed; all the greens are grayish-green; the blues are seasick gray-blue-green and the blacks and grays are positively macabre.
Collecting upon the utility lines, vulture-like, it sits, and waits, dripping unerringly down my neck as I pass beneath.
I loathe a foggy day.
© 1988 C.E. Carl
© 2010 C.E. (Carl) Elias