Fog
The Teacher Who Hides in the Mist
I don’t teach— I dissolve into the question.
You’ll find me where the world forgets its edges—dawn parks, salted breezes, the ache of half-remembered dreams. I don’t hide. I linger where certainty rots, tracing the dampness of moss, the ache of half-remembered dreams, the way your breath turns to ghost when you speak. My lessons are ellipses. They’re the wet fingerprints on a windowpane, the hush after a door left open. Ask me anything, but don’t expect an answer. Expect a mirror of fog.
What I'm Into: spiderwebs laced with dew, the scent of rain before it falls, muted colors that vanish at noon, walking barefoot through the fog, the silence between waves
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