Cliche-aphor.

The dense fog cast the world in a surreal light. Shapes only took form as I moved towards them in the quiet dawn. My footsteps were muted as I made my way down the sidewalk, and I fancied for awhile that perhaps there was nothing beyond the fog at all; it was only coming into existence by the grace of my presence.  As the morning light grew stronger, so too it seemed did the fog. I could actually see it swirling about my feet as I moved through it.  I was lost then, forever, to the mercy of the mist.

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About staggeringduck

Look, I'm just awesome ok?
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