Always hope for a sunny day and deal with the fog like a fisherman.
So the lights were bright.
Fog lights.
The fog horn sounded every 7 seconds to identify our quaint harbor.
We started polishing glasses at the Hook, Line and Sinker pub.
Music filtered through foggy leaves as the busker brought bright songs of fortune.
A Ferrari had the exhaust tone to cut through this obscured scene and the color of course, to brighten a deep cave.
Storied and stored.
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