A fog, thick as death, has enveloped us for days. Like smoke, it chokes us – not our lungs, but our hope. All is gray and wet. Our swords seem to soften and droop as much as our spirits. We were blind. Although we walk only a few feet apart, one in front of the other, a line of four fellows, we see naught of each other – for over a fortnight, nothing but fog. All we share is our voices and our despair. Twice, different members of our party, accidentally wandered away from our slow march across the grasslands, grasslands that seem as endless and the fog is dense. By God’s grace alone, we found our lost each time. How? Only by calling to them, calling each name for hours, did we return them to our fold. Finally, we agreed to bind ourselves together with a long rope, each man four-feet-apart from the next; only four feet, but still no man could see the other. All together, we are lost to grapple with only our own thoughts…despair.