Foggy morning in Dumbo, burns off.  Ride out to Coney.  The slowest, near creepy, realization that with each block deeper into the alphabet it is getting progressively, what?  I slowly start to realize:  fogged in. Just like SF.  I put on my Patagonia because it is cold, that cold.  I never look at the temperature, but it's the fifth layer, down, and my hands are freezing.  I ride with one hand in my pocket, wondering like I always did, if it was warm over the hill/in the city/over Twin Peaks.  I don't know if one ever gets over the idea that within a seven square mile radius you can be in the sun and your friends in the other part of town are in the fog.  Although, when you get to the hills, you see it and it's real.  Seemingly impossible always, but slowly over seven years, I accept the impossible as truth.  I also adapted a summer logic that with every ten miles I drove north, into Marin, it got ten degrees warmer, and soon enough it was 110 in Sonoma.  Conveniently the alphabet will help me arrive at a similar logic for these days in Brooklyn, although rare, challenging to make the logic sound.  Surprised as I realized, NYC and BK have become more similar in weather patterns.  A ten year hiatus, upon returning nine years ago, I realize over the last five of those years the weather has, only on rare occasions, reminded of the '90's.  Gone, the brutality of heatwaves, humid subways in July when the weather people tell you it feels like 110 degrees, or the rare nor'easter, now more disconcerting, a 70 degree Christmas, spring blooms in February.  Coney, a routine to me, as I have never seen it.  Haunting and lonesome for the adventurous.  "Only the lonely can play."