You walk in the early morning fog, one step at a time, hardly visible to anyone, most of all yourself. You hear the crows in the trees or hopping amongst the dead leaves, and imagine their movements. Even when the crows are no longer with us still they will exist in our minds, as they have done from time out of mind.

Past an old guard who walks slowly, head down, ponderously, perhaps contemplating the great mysteries of life-or maybe what's for breakfast. You look up now and then to see a bright white light glowing with individual brilliance, some fallen star, or a porch light left on and still shining from the previous night. Like a light out at sea, engulfed in the mist. With a stronger heart you'd resist the temptation to think this meant anything.

In the distance another guard rooted to the spot, crestfallen. But no, only a small tree, dark and sombre. 

For a moment you could be Marcovaldo, walking on to an airport runway or balancing precariously on a roof ledge. Your legs and your thoughts like an old machine, the only solidity in this light, surreal world. For a moment you recover a way of being without books or words, some ancient balance. But perhaps I'm only talking to myself after all, or maybe I've already died.