In the hour of the wolf, from the edges beyond the wash of the streetlights, the fog extended one wispy tendril towards the visible and then exhaled into every available space, lacing around tree limbs, climbing terraces, skirting the surface of sleeping grasses until everything was made of it – a massive wall of swirling white ghosts eating all definition. My imbalance at work bled into my weekend and I seem unable to find my path through it or realize the need for some distance.