" Yet as our North Bay strolls grew longer, sometimes wandering felt like pacing, adrift. I had no direction, only a romantic wish: to become a professional writer. But whatever terrain existed between my body and a body of work I might create seemed mysterious and vast, unknown. Most days, the sky was satin, markless blue. But below, fog hung like a suspended field of snow that never melted, the boundless dampness muting San Francisco’s lights. And the path to that summit of composing even one novel was invisible. "

― Aspen Matis , Your Blue Is Not My Blue: A Missing Person Memoir