And this house just ain't no home

It was hallucinatory fog last night in the coastal barrens. The sort of fog that contracts the world to a hundred-yard radius, dropping a boundary where everything fades abruptly to chalk. The sort of fog which forces everyone to a tense, precise, unwavering adherence to the speed limit, no more, no less. Bleak, claustrophobic, murder-mystery fog. As I drove, familiar things appeared suddenly, unexpected and unrecognizable, stark and two-dimensional on the blank skene of fog. A local church promised a Blessing of Blackberries. Through the speakers, a local bluesman played Ain't No Sunshine.  D hasn't been home in a month and a half, I thought with wandering languor.

Really just the weather for the start of term, if one had a mind that ran to pathetic fallacy.