They Say You Can Always Find Your Way Back Home (No Matter What)

The fog is a thick blanket hanging suspended from the sky, veiling our vision with a film of obsurity and muting the clarity of the image before us till it melds together in an unidentifiable blur of ambiguity. We see the street before us, but there is a certain fuzziness that toys with our sense of perception. The headlights of the car barely have the light crucial to navigate this vague darkness. We stop at the stop sign, turning right onto our street. It is apparent the fog has found its preferred resting place here. It shrouds the houses' facades, expands itself leisurely into the cold night air. It seems to think it has all the time in the world to tuck itself into bed. The street is held captive by this haze...except for, it looks like...a single house. Its hanging icicle lights shine through the opaqueness with a fervid yellow glow, contriving an alluring, mystical illusion. It is a timeworn castle from the Europe of the past, protected by its ever-looming moat (dare you cross?), its needlelike spires, its thousand layers of mist. We pull into the driveway of this magnificent fortress, none other than the place we call home.