San Francisco is magical.  It’s almost 2am and the city is alive with artists and musicians, writers and interns, bums and kids selling scrap metal shaped into rings; there are hippies and bankers, street performers and sailors, college kids and foreigners selling hot dogs with bacon.  In their pockets flasks and money, left over powder and cigarettes, lighters and flashing cell phones and with itching hands hold the vibrancy of a chosen life.

And we walk through the curled up alleys and winding city streets unnoticed because how could they pause if the spirit is alive and free and floating somewhere with the fog on the misty peninsula?  After all, it’s San Francisco and there they say you can say whatever and do however and dance wherever and love whoever so why not saydodancelove the night into oblivion, laughing and crying and shouting and singing and loving and coming, coming, coming until.

Quiet.  No one knows you.  You who are just like the rest of the: dreaming souls floating over the inky blackness that hides the sea, pausing where the fog disperses into the navy skies of the distant harbor.  What of the others: the ones who tiptoe like thunder over the rusty path to other-lands and tentatively cross over the depthless world of uncertainty?

We simply gaze, and permit ourselves the audacity to wonder of that so attainable secret while something laughs at our individuality and our hidden dreams and our shrouded insecurities and our half-truths and bandaged failures.  Oh they are all the same, these fog lovers and wandering gazers and doubtful dreamers and blind doers; all the same until they look up and either laugh or cry at the secret our foggy night whispers.  You are free: beautifully, terribly, wonderfully, mercilessly free.