There have been so many misty days lately, so many times when all the woods and hillsides are covered in white haze like clouds. And so the God of the Mist has made himself a presence in the valley where there is always a bit of mist along the river early in the morning.
I went there and he surprised me – whispered to me – not in words but with wispy misty thoughts giving me a shiver. Now I know him. He has touched me. Should I call him by a name? I don’t know. No name I can think of suits him. I don’t think he answers to words at all. Just shivers and shudders and dampness on the skin. He just drifts, yet he feels like a shape rather than shapeless. But dense, something that’s not seethrough but opaque. Like he doesn’t want an identity. Just to drift and be a veil over other things making them mysterious and shapeless like him.
