When it rains here, the clouds often come right down to the ground as fog. Nearby treetops will turn vague, like background objects in an old photograph. The cloud drifts in puffs -- cloud within cloud -- and the faded world is filled with the sound of dripping water. Day passes to night without a hint of sunset, and the cloud can still be seen drifting by in the beams of light spilling from windows. This would be a good night for wearing a trench coat and fedora. I could wander through the damp and maybe stumble across a dead body or two. But I lack those items, as well as proper footwear. Rather than go out and soak my Rockports, I'll stay in and maybe catch up on e-mail. I'm unlikely to find cadavers around here, anyway, other than the usual road kill. Who murdered Mister Squirrel? That shady cowboy in the pickup truck, I'd say, or maybe the soccer dame in the SUV. Nope, there's no drama in that. E-mail it is!