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Walking around on a foggy day, feeling this fresh air in your lungs. Water condenses on your skin. Only blurry silhouettes of things around you. Defining the boarders of your current world. Nothings behind it. Only imagination. Fog hides everything unecessary but reveals the beautiness of simple things. Things unrecognized but now again in focus because nothing else is there. The wonderfull shine of a streelamp, plants behind a misty shroud or even the blurry dots everywhere loosing all there shape but showing their colorness. It´s akind of walking in a Monet painting. The whole world is locked out. And you´re alone in this pleasently small world. Hermann Hesse once described it in a wonderfull maner in its poem „In the fog“.

Strange, to wander in the fog.
Each bush and stone stands alone,
No tree sees the next one,
Each is alone.

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