The fog will blindside you, but not in a bad way. This is not the malicious fog that murders motorists indiscriminately as it sneaks up on a freeway one frigid morning. This is the fog churned out by the Pacific Ocean. You may not notice its early advances up over Marin as seen from Aquatic Park or over Twin Peaks -perhaps observed in front of the bar by the same name in the Castro. But the fog will envelop you in its icy embrace as you walk the streets in the glass canyons of the Financial District, or the seamy parts of the Tenderloin. Or, perhaps you watch its advance from the vantage of The Golden Gate Bridge as you walk across it. You would have to be listening to the traffic on that specific route across the Bay.
Exhaustion accompanies my every move as the rising sun fails to warm the foggy city. As I begin my trek on the eastern side of the bridge and imagine a vista now obscured by a gentle whiteness, I try to regain a sense of well-being. Perhaps my footfalls upon this massive bridge will bring about the return of my misplaced calmness. Perhaps the gentle whiteness will enter my brain.
The evening before is now a jumble of images like so many postcards tossed to the floor. It began with my own lack of anticipation, sexual or otherwise, at a bar called The Endup.
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