The Fog is unrelenting and its presence is a weak depression. My confidence is waning, it’s found its monument in the wet air thickening above the farmland. I remained distantly alert and vacuous for as long as I was here. Too long and not long enough.  I can only imagine what happens week in and week out when it soaks into the skin like a transdermal mist, tinkering with all the emotion that it can reach until it finds something interesting—those poor barmen, what they endured when the loggers returned every evening reeking of the mountain breeze.