The fog thickened as the Impératrice began its hasty, heavy descent. Thoughts of milk soup came to mind, a dish my mother serves us sometimes, when the weather recommends a touch of comfort and warmth. In its figurative shape, to talk which isn’t culinary but rather proverbial, it was not even close. For I know what a milk soup is. A milk soup, when referring to someone, it’s Amon sticking my head in a pumpkin, bellowing unintelligible words that somehow sound like mighty colourful insults, because I made an untasteful joke about him; It’s my mother yelling her three son’s names too many times before she finally s