So i should be aware of the dangers of self-consciousness, but at the same time, ill be plowing through the fog of all these echoes, plowing through mixed metaphors, noise, and will try to show the core, which is still there, as a core, and is valid, despite the fog. The core is the core is the core. There is always the core, that cant be articulated. Only caricatured.
Will nodded slowly, then looked up at tha black sky. "the stars", he said. "i have never seen them so bright. The wind has blown off the fog, i think." magnus thought of the joy on will's face as he had stood bleeding in camille's living room, clutching the demon tooth in his hand. Somehow i don't think it's the stars that have changed.
Johanna glances over at finnick, to be sure, then turns to me. how’d you lose mags? in the fog. finnick had peeta. i had mags for a while. then i couldn’t lift her. finnick said he couldn’t take them both. she kissed him and walked right into the poison, i say. she was finnick’s mentor, you know, johanna says accusingly. no, i didn’t, i say. she was half his family, she says a few moments later, but there’s less venom behind it.
They call them the haunted shores, these stretches of devonshire and cornwall and ireland which rear up against the westward ocean. Mists gather here, and sea fog, and eerie stories. That's not because there are more ghosts here than in other places, mind you. It's just that people who live hereabouts are strangely aware of them.
Fog everywhere. fog up the river where it flows among green airs and meadows; fog down the river, where it rolls defiled among the tiers of shipping, and the waterside pollutions of a great (and dirty) city.... chance people on the bridges peeping over the parapets into a nether sky of fog, with fog all round them, as if they were up in a balloon and hanging in the misty clouds.