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The fog nearly killed me last night. I still have an obsession with it. I liken it to you, currently, because I'm obsessed with you and this and all of it. I don't know what to do. I'm in a fog, of obligations and desires and not wanting to hurt anyone. Of lust and lies and guilt. And all those are secondary grays to the white that is love, the pure thick white that wraps my heart and head and immobilizes me. Some of it might be the booze. I never ask for help from anything intangible that isn't within my own being. I never have. I feel when you go to the gods and such out of desperation, instead of love, you're cheating them, or at least the idea of them. But please. Help me figure out the right thing.
The lamps illuminated the fog, giving birth to a rare ambient beauty. I stopped the car, got out, and walked about the park- to the pavillion, around the pond, along the riverside. The fog moved slowly, and I felt as if I could merely take a step and find myself in some strange place, never to be seen again. This would not be unwelcome.
I wish I could have shared it with you, any of you, all of you. It's a beautiful night, made for ambling about a college campus and talking, trading utopian fantasies, loves, hates, losses, desires, despairs.