The early hours of the morning, and the city is cloaked in fog. The border between sky and earth has been scrubbed out.

The early hours of the morning, and the city is cloaked in fog.

The border between sky and earth has been scrubbed out. The only view my window offers is the blurred suggestion of two poplars, ink-wash contours wavering four or five meters up from where the street lies hidden; all else is white. But can we really call it white? That vast, soundless undulation between this world and the next, each cold molecule formed of drenched black darkness.

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