It is bitter cold, and the fog is very, very cold. Not the alluring cold of San Francisco, the kind that sets in between the sunset and the brittle, fragile pre dawn, but a painful, bleak, and industrial chill, which fills every empty space, like a predator.It is a cold that warps the steel and wood we seek shelter in, and it eats everything, it eats hope and love and they are made sheets of ice that I cannot see.

There's nothing left to but listen.