Tomorrow's Anniversary contains an element I'll call smokiness, rather than fog. It's not so much regret or sadness, because I am older than I might once have been, and if there is such a thing as wisdom, it amasses what might be called a "gentleness toward." A phrase not easy to define in a manner that contains no suggestion of emotion, or yearning, or hope, or wish, because gentleness toward as I mean it can appear cruel or loving or dumb or even blind. Nor is it really tender or caring. And most assuredly it is not easy to handle in the way soft things are supposed to be, because it's where the ghosts live.
Better to picture it as the Christians have, think of it as forgiveness, but unlike the Christians my understanding of "gentleness toward" contains no hint of grace. And I guess this is because I am godless, so who forgives who, becomes irrelevant. Which is why 'smokiness' is peripheral, at the edge of vision. That area the motor vehicle department tests in eyesight before granting license to drive. It's an uncertainty that makes a person turn his head, the better to see and that way reveals his flaw. In "gentleness toward," however there is no reason to turn the head. A highbrow, you might think, but I'd argue it's much, much older than our two legs and tailless-ness.