A numb fog coats everything, muffles sound, diffuses and obscures light, makes the air seem much colder than it is. It hangs heavy, making the air into something you could grab fistfuls of.

Feels like my head’s wrapped in a pillow; the voices around me sound like caterwauling trumpets corked up with mutes. All I can hear clearly is the song stuck in my head. Today it’s Janis, singing from her toes, electric and pure: “A woman left lonely will soon grow tired of waiting, she’ll do crazy things, yeah, on lonely occasions…” The view that extends in front of me looks white and milky. Like a massive kingdom of spiderwebs. The fog outside is unmoving and swallows anything you throw into it, like a black hole. And all the while, I’ve got a vibrant spectacle taking place inside.

Inside, I’m singing from my own damn toes, stamping my feet, swinging my hair around. Singing until my eyes overflow and I choke the words out through fits of laughter. I’ve got a whole world of feeling and life in this vessel, no matter how thick the fog is out there.

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