I think some days I can imagine what’s next. Now that my life is more stable than it used to be. That I can see the definite outlines of trees, the long booms etched hard in the water. I won’t, I can’t discount the fog anymore though. The reality that there is never a perfect anticipation of anything. & just when I thought I had attained some clarity I was ditched with few anchors and left to rebuild, or die, as the case fortunately wasn’t. I am not morbid like I used to be. I don’t imagine I won’t live to be old. I don’t tremble on the edge of what if, what if all the time. But the hubris is mostly gone. And now I accept the fog’s inevitability, how it arrives like morning, releases its white hold so rapidly then fastens on the world again, obfuscating, transforming, as if it never dispersed.