allegory and Edward Gorey

The temperature is about to drop startlingly, like the chilling snap of fingers behind your head when you thought you were alone. There is really very little in the world that I like better than moist, grey days that hover about sixty-seven degrees.
And I miss mist. We don't get much of that in Texas.

All of my life is just mist of one form or another. Obfuscation and myopic stumbling around in the twilight are all I've got, and it's hard to see and hear things far off. Everything's distorted until you get close up.

On grey days I feel like that's all been externalized, like now that the fog is outside of my head there's nothing left to cloud me up, that I can see things for what they are.
Pray for grey.
Pray for mist.