There's something about the fog that brings back memories of a life past lived. Newport, Rhode Island, circa 1998 riding my bicycle at 5 am to the newspaper I interned at during college, hearing the foghorns from the nearby port. Kuji, Iwate Prefecture in Northern Japan where I lived for four years and where every morning the yamase (mountain fog) would settle so thick it was near impossible to see even a yard in front of me. And Los Angeles, California, where the marine layer brings an air of eerie silence and evokes a feeling that here in a city of 17 million on a foggy morning, I'm the only person, solitary, alone, free.