Greek photographer George Christakis


Posted on October 1, 2012

There is something eerily beautiful about mist; small droplets of water suspended, floating silently through the air, thickening it like a cloud of hazy nothingness. Water yet to be risen.

Where I grew up fog and mist were a given in the cooler months. I remember waiting in my school uniform, shivering in the early morning beside the road waiting for the bus to arrive.

You could hear the roar of its engine pulling its weighted load of unruly Catholic school girls up the hill before it would appear from the mist, seemingly out of nowhere.  It would then screech to a halt beside you, opening its monster sized jaws and summoning you to the warmth and wrath of the older girls on board.


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