The earth is a cold dead place

It is foggy this morning.
It's so thick that I have to use my headlights to make sure others can make me out.
It seems almost like a ghostly carnival.
Shadowy colossi hulk to the sides, the lights of mysterious rides flash on and off, coming and going.
The reds, whites, yellows, and greens.
It didn't surprise me this morning.
I feel clear, like that first morning of being completely well after a long flu spell.
The sinuses of my mind are clear,
My lungs filled with menthol.
Through the night, the haze that has followed my waking existence seeped out my ears, through the cracks of my window, and into the night air.
I wonder if the lights on my car are apparitions in someone else's imagination.
I wonder if weathermen can track the origin of weather systems.
If they have instruments that can tell if they came from the Pacific,
Or leaked from my subconcious.
A moment never seems so fitting when the earth seems to mirror the emotions you are feeling.
Better still is when she keeps those thoughts and feelings you no longer care for, and shares them with the world instead.
While you are left to rise above them.