The fog rolls in enveloping you like bed covers on a cold and dreary night. Staring into the rush of the fog, a great wall that divides to either side as it passes you. Opening and closing around rocks and trees. Engulfing all on it's journey from the sea.

Late and tired, you should slow down because of this fog, dense pea soup fog, driving sixty miles an hour though an endless expanse of grey. Wispy fingers then a few feet that is perfectly clear..two bright red...BRAKE LIGHTS...screech., tires trying to grab the wet pavement, heart pounding trying to break free of your chest. Pulling the steering wheel back, like it will help slow your progress. Slow motion scenes click away in your mind, eyes focused on the two bright red lights. Not going to make it, the words are yours but are voiced by someone else. Not going to make it, it stretching on and on until the car comes to a stop inches from the bright red lights.

Calming is this fog as it washes around you. So minute and insignificant one person is in relationship to the world. Continually the fog rolls on dividing as it passes. A little void a small clear bubble in a bowl of pea soup. The piercing screech of tires on pavement interrupts your induced solitude.

These little moments are the things my brother lived for. The surprise events that would break the cycle of monotony and habit.

We read Hesse’s Steppenwolf and felt this in our bones:

“For what I always hated and detested and cursed above all things was this contentment, this healthiness and comfort, this carefully preserved optimism of the middle classes, this fat and prosperous brood of mediocrity. ”