It is foggy tonight in Parma. Fog here in the lowlands can last days on end, without seeing any sun except for a cold, pale grey disk, a weak imitation of the scorching fire of summer; visibility reduced to a few dozen meters and a world immersed in gloom.
This is one of the first foggy nights of this winter and it came after a fair day. The cityscape around my place is ghostly and quiet - it may be only an impression, but I am convinced that the droplets of water suspended in the air are enough to damp sound waves.
I relish being snug and warm inside these nights, but I'd relish even more a fireplace and a window to let me peek at the scene outside, and imagine the cold. Yet a part of me would like to be out there, to feel the cool and humid air on my face (and the rest of me warm underneath the proper clothes), the silence, the ghostly images. Me and one or two trusted buddies covering each other's back, patrolling - not strictly in a military sense - the flat countryside.
It could become a story, if I knew what other beings and people can roam freely in a foggy night.