It’s foggy in Chicago tonight. It’s that thick kind of fog that makes the street lights radiate and buzz about. There’s a chill in the air too, tonight.

I walked the dog and smoked a cheap cigar, and I couldn’t tell where the smoke ended and where the fog began. Sport tucked his nose between spots of the wet grass, tracking the hidden scent.

I’m happily, finally tired. I returned home with hands and ears and face cold and wet to the touch. I kissed my wife. And it was good.

Now it’s raining. And the lighting is striking. Good night; good, good night.