The bus drops me off on a street covered in fog. The city lays wrapped in a shroud. It’s too dark to be the second longest day of the year.
I walk up the hill as if walking through a dream. I think I notice something through the palpable ether, but as I draw toward it, I discover the mirage is just an illusion of light and shadow.
I turn the corner and enter a building– my building– and head up to my apartment. I pick up an apple and walk over to the window. Streetlights accent the fog with different shades of gray.
I pick up the guitar and try hitting a few notes before turning on the television. Riker is playing with an alien child is a Romulan fantasy world but loses interest. The alien child looks like Bibble of Nebulon 5.
I then turn to my laptop and start writing some drivel, initially expecting to turn my evening into some type of detective story in which I am a gumshoe trying to solve a crime on my way home in the mysterious Fog City. Like Riker, I lose interest quickly.
I look at a series of e-mails from friends and family to which I have yet to respond. Am I too drained to write?