There was Carlos Beltran, and then there was not. The final tally? Five. There was Carlos Beltran, and then there were five, and then there was no Carlos Beltran anymore. He is around, he has not disappeared, but for the moment he has retreated back into the mist. The thick coming mist, rolling down from the hills, all of the hills, consuming us and everyone and everything we know. Words cannot be exchanged -- visibility is that of the point of one's nose. Messages may be exchanged, but only written, only scrawled on baseballs, mashed as dingers and scattered about at seeming random. Will the fog lift? Will there always be fog? Has there always been fog, of which we've only now become aware? All these questions and more must be posed to philosophers, written on baseballs, delivered as dingers. The fog grows thicker. It moistens the skin. All is slick, so nothing is slick. All is damp, so nothing is damp.