The path disappears a single pace in front of me, swallowed up in a cloud fallen to earth. The mist wraps its damp fingers about my eyes, my waist, my legs; to breathe is to fill my lungs with water.
I cannot stop; I must press on, though stone walls surround me, and blindness envelops me. Who can say where this path will lead, whether safe through the fog or to the edge of a cliff?
If only this mist would part as the Red Sea in ancient times. If I could but see the path lain before me, though all else lay shrouded in mist.
And yet, even were this path made clear, I imagine it would meander and wind like a maze, still finding a way to hide itself from me.
What else can I do? I take one tentative step, another, disappearing into the blindness.