This morning I realized, that walking through the fog, we are ghosts. Wispy, faceless, apparitions, drifting through the streets. The boy, scampering behind me, his mother following him, the cyclists, peddling up mahogany street, and the early morning dog walkers. All ghosts. I wondered briefly if I was a ghost to them, a ghost with a blue dress, clutching a lunchbox. We all continue through the haunting fog, pursuing our morning ends. I like to think that fog is magic, that when the pea soup splashes our city it freezes time. Reminding us that we pursue tomorrow, run from yesterday, but are stuck, in the everlasting limbo, of today. And that is okay.