We feel compelled to tell our story, even though we anticipate the sting of embarrassment and mockery it may invoke. So maybe it won't be the silver saucers that change our lives. Maybe it will be how we learn to exchange stories. Or how we learn to listen. Always there has been fog along the coasts, hugging the coastlines like stockings embracing Greta Garbo's legs.
Foghorns flare their warnings and go out.
But we remember the sound of fog horns as fondly as we do nursery songs. Strangers dissolve into the fog. North America disappears. But the night air is like the darkened room of a s ance, where contact beckons. Moonlight shimmers in the fog, and you think of the light from projectors in old movie theatres.