The Long Tale No. 9 - A Prison of Clouds

The fog had appeared without warning that night. It consumed everything. The stars no longer twinkled and the moon no longer shone. Even the darkness was overcome by the soft twilight. The man stood in the middle of it all and breathed deeply, a clearing forming in front of him, only to be covered once more by his own misting breath. All sounds were dampened to silence and all smells and tastes, bar the pemuating dampness, were deadened as well. It was strangely peaceful, yet panicking at the same time the man thought. A prison made of the softest clouds.