Sleeping is a mug's game
Jul. 22nd, 2010 02:59 amSo far tonight I've tried in vain to get David Bowie out of my brain jukebox (Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes!), memorized the prices of cat adoptions, reread one of my favourite short stories (Tom Brightwind, or How the fairy bridge was built at Thorsby by Susanna Clarke), and been nostalgic about fog.
You never see that that type of peasoupy fog anymore, do you? It's my favourite sort of weather, but I can't remember the last time I'd walk outside and the entire world around me had just disappeared. Maybe I lived in a particularly foggy part of the country when I was a child, I don't know. My school route in the winter could at times put Silent Hill to shame.
Sometimes here in Bergen I look out my window and delight in how I can't see any of the mountains that usually dominate my bedroom view (though that could just be smog, seeing as how Bergen is one of the most polluted cities in Norway), but the kind of fog you can get lost in? Just a childhood memory.
I JUST CARE A LOT ABOUT FOG OKAY.
You never see that that type of peasoupy fog anymore, do you? It's my favourite sort of weather, but I can't remember the last time I'd walk outside and the entire world around me had just disappeared. Maybe I lived in a particularly foggy part of the country when I was a child, I don't know. My school route in the winter could at times put Silent Hill to shame.
Sometimes here in Bergen I look out my window and delight in how I can't see any of the mountains that usually dominate my bedroom view (though that could just be smog, seeing as how Bergen is one of the most polluted cities in Norway), but the kind of fog you can get lost in? Just a childhood memory.
I JUST CARE A LOT ABOUT FOG OKAY.