Ushuaia, Spring

The warming air draws fog from the snow. People merge, buildings fade away and appear without reason, and it is easy to imagine that I’ve become a ghost, some impalpable, mute, formless thing stirred and carried in tendrils by passing breezes. If I am one of the dead, then in time I’ll find that this fog stretches out over the continents, obscures the sea, the sun and the stars.