The landward marks have failed, the fog-bank glides unguessed

After dinner, we drove out to Point Judith. The fog was so dense that we could barely see the waves spilling on the shore, never mind the lighthouse; it pearled on our hair and clothes and we could hear the foghorn sounding. Someone had built a fire up near the jetty (whose existence I had to take on faith: at one point there was a lighter fluid flare-up that reflected volcanically off the waves, but the jetty remained invisible), but presently it went out. When another car turned up the road, a colorless rainbow formed in its headlights. My hair smells like damp salt and woodsmoke. There is a Siamese cat investigating my backpack. Spooky found me bitter lemon soda at the supermarket; Caitlín read me the preface and first chapter of The Red Tree. I’m tired enough not to shower before I sleep. I’m really very happy.