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No natural phenomenon, except maybe fire, seems more alive than the mist. But while fire is young, angry, destructive, mist is an old grumpy creature, moving slowly, hiding itself in contradictions. It doesn't hide distant features as much as it reveals close ones through contrast, it doesn't absorb light as much as it lets itself glow around sources of illumination, it makes sounds crystal clear by covering the constant hum of far off noise, dense and yet immaterial, its blanket like qualities offset by its cold embrace. Never more life like than when it clings to a still surface of water, the slightest gust of wind prompts annoyed tendrils and every move of another living thing elicits mirror acts, dream like, half finished motions forgotten before they even end. If mist could only remember...


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