Today is a day Edgar Allen Poe could have made up, if given the opportunity. The mist is thready yet thick, the possibilities it could conceal endless.

There are no aliens in this cloud.

Then again, maybe there are, but that takes us well away from Poe and somewhere else entirely.

When you see a day like today, there is little wonder that mist morphed into something fantastic, something more than a mere dense collection of tiny water droplets. It is obscuring, but not entirely, as the closer you get the more you can see.

And the further you are, the less you can make out.

Ships have appeared and disappeared in it, because of it, and it could hold the secrets of anything, of anyone.

If you stand far enough away.

Because though it seems like a hiding place when your lights hit a wall of gray from down the road, the concealment it provides dissolvesthe closer you get, and then you are inside it.

Along with the secrets.