A thick fog has completely enshrouded the campus. It lies all around, as far as
the senses reach - surrounding trees and enclosing buildings, softening all
their edges and corners until they only remain dark nearly indiscernible hulks
in the dim lamplight. The dampness is tangible, but not weighty or sticky. I
love it. I can not remember if it was like this last year, somehow I think it
was not. I prefer to think such weather is unique and strange and new. There is
something about a fog that makes it, and the area it is spread over, seem at
once strange and foreign and yet similar to every other fog in any other land.
Perhaps that is why I love it so much, it is so much easier to imagine I am
somewhere and somewhen else.

I rediscovered my fountain pen recently. My palms and finger tips at the moment
are splotched and smeared with ink. Apparently it is the good sort of ink that
does not run off one's page if it happens to get wet because it does not want
to wash off at all. I don't mind though - it is a reminder to use the pen more
often. I am sure that it only bled all over me in punishment for its long
period of neglect. In hopes of preventing such desperate acts on its part,
again I bought fresh cartridges of ink this evening, a lovely green colored
ink. It has been quite a long while since I wrote in green ink...