This entry comes from secret fan of the blog and health extraordinaire, Cheryl. Some have compared her writings to an early Camus and also a late Camus. There are even rumors that she may be related to yours truly, but I'll leave that question to the philosophers.
It chills me to the bone as I leave my warm house and walk to the bus. My perfectly straight hair becomes instantly frizzy. It flows gently and silently over the hills and slowly meanders down the street like a ghost finding its way. It can be eerily beautiful and dreamlike as it drifts through the cables of the Golden Gate Bridge and floats like angels into the bay. It can be as thin as a veil or as thick as cotton. The foghorns blow in a wide range of tones to warn passing ships and keep light sleepers awake.