so this made me think of the poem Fog:

The fog comes
on little cat feet.

It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on

Carl Sandberg

Me 57/H 58
M36 S 2.5yrs R 12/13

Let me give up the need to know why things happen as they do.
I will never know and constant wondering is constant suffering.
Caroline Myss