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Fogs are like dreams that feed the soul, and without their mysterious embrace, childhood, courtship, poetry and the composition of music become all the more difficult.

That's the thing about depression: A human being can survive almost anything, as long as she sees the end in sight. But depression is so insidious, and it compounds daily, that it's impossible to ever see the end. The fog is like a cage without a key.

People realised this is real pollution; it is not fog. Now everyone has to face the data and come out of their comfort zone.

The point is that life for me is not going to be the way it is for everyone else. I have a fog machine and movie lights in my bedroom.

Clouds come floating into my life, no longer to carry rain or usher storm, but to add color to my sunset sky.

The myth of unlimited production brings war in its train as inevitably as clouds announce a storm.

When we contemplate the whole globe as one great dewdrop, striped and dotted with continents and islands, flying through space with other stars all singing and shining together as one, the whole universe appears as an infinite storm of beauty.

It's impossible to know what happens in the fog of war.

In the presence of eternity, the mountains are as transient as the clouds.

A perfect storm is in the making: financial uncertainty, economic downturn, government cuts, rising unemployment and a future that looks less clear the more we try to fathom it.