ABSTRACT
When I was a child I had a recurring dream about a city in the clouds. From a distance that made the city into a stage set, the buildings apparently floated, their shared base shrouded in fog. The invisibility of these foundations created an illusion that defied gravity. At some uncertain point, I found myself in a car crossing a boundary, a river Styx, or misty bay. Once within the city, my fellow passengers—my father and sister—and I suddenly reached a new point of view. The streets were so steep that driving uphill pressed our backs against the car seats like astronauts. My gaze pointed upward where barely visible pedestrians leaned against the hills, into their steps, clutching their coats close against the mist and the wind. Beyond and between them: radiant fog.
