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10/05/2004: "The Fog at the End of the Road"

The fog descended early in the morning and enshrouded our rummage cleanup. Midmorning it lifted, physically, but I find myself still in a metaphorical fog the next day -- from exhaustion, confusion, uncertainty. The passing fair has nearly disappeared with the morning mist, a few hours of clean-up for the last of us and the fairgrounds will go back to the people of Far Hills. The tribes have dispersed and the stories we started are unfinished. It is, formally, at an end, but life is messy and there are no real endings.