"FOG"
I SEE THE FOG, COMING DOWN THE HILL. ENSHROUDING LIKE A BLANKET BUT DOESN'T REMOVE THE CHILL.
THE CHILL THAT LIES WITHIN US, EACH AND EVERY ONE. THE CHILL OF THE GRAVE WHEN OUR LIFE IS DONE
ALL THAT WE CAN HOPE FOR IS THAT OUR LIFE WAS GOOD MEASURED BY AN UNKNOWN SCALE BUT ENDING, WRAPPED IN WOOD.
THE FOG OVER THE GRAVE IS COLDER THAN ANYTHING WE'LL EVER KNOW. BUT I DOUBT WE'LL FEEL IT, WHEN WE'RE SIX FEET BELOW.
