after eighteen months of losing touch, we are expected to emerge from the fog. I was wondering whether I should write about water instead of fog. but I have always found some sense of solace in the water, and I don't always see the need to emerge.

the island is water and I can’t fully understand it. I wish I could hold it all between my two hands, touch every surface, run my fingers through every crack. that would help my body be enough… feel the skin on moss, skin on ice, skin on fire, skin on skin. my skin on the skin of the island. I wonder if she cares, if she can feel it too.