I often wonder at the lives of strangers, how they interact with the world, what they see when they look at the everyday, the ordinary. Does it have the same tinge of the surreal, I ask. Does the fog speak of mysteries, or is it simply water suspended in the air, too heavy for humidity, too light for rain? Does an ancient locked door in an otherwise modern district hold a door to the færie realm, or is it just a gate to someone's older house?
Then I find magic in the ordinary, in a conversation captured in snatches, as i did the other day, in the city, at a corner: a man, talking to his son, or an uncle and nephew, perhaps; these days, they must know each other somehow. He was balanced on his toes, looking like he might sit cross-legged in midair at any moment, but that he chose, for appearances' sake, to remain earthbound.
« You need to watch out in the evenings, » he said, « when the winds are highthe edges aren't so clear then. I've watched people caught in