“One day many years ago a man walked along and stood in the sound of the
ocean on a cold sunless shore and said, "We need a voice to call across
the water, to warn ships; I'll make one. I'll make a voice like all of
time and all of the fog that ever was; I'll make a voice that is like an
empty bed beside you all night long, and like an empty house when you
open the door, and like trees in autumn with no leaves. A sound like the
birds flying south, crying, and a sound like November wind and the sea
on the hard, cold shore. I'll make a sound that's so alone that no one
can miss it, that whoever hears it will weep in their souls, and hearths
will seem warmer, and being inside will seem better to all who hear it
in the distant towns. I'll make me a sound and an apparatus and they'll
call it a Fog Horn and whoever hears it will know the sadness of
eternity and the briefness of life."
The Fog Horn blew.”
―
Ray Bradbury,
The Fog Horn
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