some jump the bridge before they’re buried alive
The fog is bad breath on a jacket and this city gets cold. When the clear morning comes and the colors in the sky are revealed you’ll take a minute to look. Just a minute. You were in bed not too long ago and you had blankets on you no different than a cave man would do it.
Fog is a gang standing between you and blue skies. The news reports even rumors of an appearance of the coastal bullies, a quiet gang of badass shrouded spirits who crash parties, blow through red lights and send shivers through citizens. Stay home and lay in bed where it’s safe.
Fog is a big dude too fat to move. The excess skin drips into the gulches and hollows of the city, wet sweat covering the road, the manhole lids look polished and slick, the newspapers turn to wet clay laying on sidewalks, you are in bed and want another blanket to dry the dampness leeching down into your bones.