chérie, j'aime un matin brumeux
Foggy mornings do something strange to me.
Fog is like being wrapped up in arms that love you, warm in bed, all grey and creamy, waking in the early morning with nowhere to be, and nowhere in the world seeming better than where you are. It is the kind of love that Damien Rice mourns losing. It turns trees into the forests in dreams and nightmares. It turns my heart into a winged thing that is too rich with contentment to need to fly anywhere. The world is drowsy, day-dreaming, and saturated with love.
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