The fog envelopes me.
   I draw vivid pictures 
      on its white surface.

I don't know how I do it,
    But I know why.

It's a craving:
   To fill emptiness,
   To disallow silence.

The fog's texture is
   Subtle, but existent. 

Should I not sketch my story
   On that white surface,
   But rather give it my attention
      then I might see that texture,
      and then see it clearly,
      and - eventually - feel it
          as I glide my hand 
          though space...
   Blind and at ease.