This city looks extraordinary shrouded in fog. That isn’t in canon, I don’t think--the tour guides don’t tell you, the city looks extraordinary shrouded in fog--but it’s true. The term skyscraper has to be one of the best words in the English language, right? The idea that humans have constructed an object large enough to claw at the very limits of our earth. Anyway, in the fog you can see that the term is not a metaphor: The Empire State Building and its ilk very literally scrape the sky, very literally place their upper reaches beyond what can be termed sky and enter a place we on the ground cannot comprehend, much less name. The tallest trees can do this too, I suppose, and of course mountains. But it is only our towers that do so intentionally, and so they get a term that reflects their agency: Skyscrapers.
The more ultimately meaningful story of the day is that I had a social interaction with my roommates, but I’m too tired to get into it; I promise to write more about later. To synopsize: The roommates asked if I wanted to sit on the porch, and I didn’t say no. It was a good enough time--I told the story of my summer about fourteen times, told some jokes that landed, and even learned some names. My refusals of drink offers were greeted with conversations ranging from fine to sad to incredibly dervous. Yeah, I’ll get into it more later. But the point of this post is that the city looks extraordinary shrouded in fog, and that’s frankly a fine thing to write a post about.
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