The Fog

This morning I managed to get to work before the fog had lifted and I stopped momentarily at the top of a small hill between the car park and my office and was delighted to find that the only thing I could see was the lawn below, the leafless cypress beside me, the wide expanse of dull gray everything, everywhere. I thought of Novalis:

By giving a lofty sense to what is vulgar, a mysterious aspect to what is commonplace, the dignity of the unknown to what is familiar, an infinite extension to what is finite, I romanticise.

So said the fog, to me, this morning.