On the phone 📞 with a friend.
He barely leaves the apartment now.
Says the view moves more than he does.
The fog rolls in like it’s got a key. Same time, every day.

At some point, he decided it was alive.
Not metaphorically – actually alive.
He called it Jeff.
Said Jeff never asked questions, never argued, never judged.

Every time Jeff showed up, he lit a joint.
Said it helped him sync up, match the pace of something slower,
less sharp around the edges.

I’m asking if the fog scared him.
You know, all that not-seeing, all that blur.

He said,
“Not anymore
I used to think clarity would save me.
Now I think softness will.