Beloved feeders and grave-kin, The moon has ALMOST ripened. Brace yourselves.
ALMOST - FOG ALARM. The air is misty, christy, creepsy, thick with everything long buried, never meant to be felt again. The fog is hungry for forgotten grief, misplaced hopes, and all the “almosts”. Feel free to feed him. Dare to feed upon him.
The deadies will mutter all night again. The living will be painfully aware of the transience of their lives.
I almost made it. I almost lived the life I wanted. I almost became a damn rock star...
The night is expected to be noisy. We hope for a generous number of visitors.
Enter if you are re-evaluating.
Optional alarm: sighing and sobbing behind your back (ignore it).
Fog Watch Advisory: Monitor your depth. Knee-deep = second thoughts. Waist-deep = crying and revelations. Headfirst = inadvisable unless already undead.
Filed under Hamminga’s Guide to Hazardous Weather.