The Game of Prose

“Fog”

She loves the state of fog she’s in. It fades the trees to painted wisps of smoke, and all she can see is the faint yellow line dividing the black asphalt. The lack of scenery in the headlights allows no distractions from the daydreams cruising through her head. The Cure’s “Lovesong” blares from the walls of the car doors, muting the yawn of her awakening passenger. Six more days until they reach their destination, and the road never looked so infinite. But the forecast in the city calls for clear, cerulean skies, so she presses her foot to the floor. 

A new year never looked so inspiring.

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