There are times when the lake (in the throes of some strange temperament) will spit a rolling soup of vapor into the air. The low-hanging clouds often scud from east to west like half-witted harbingers of nothing in particular. The towers that mark Chicago's downtown core, are often tall enough to pierce these clouds, and on nights when such vaporous masses make their westerly transits, the tallest of the buildings break them, and even form wakes. Corey and I were downtown, on our way to the Westin Hotel to visit with Tara and Marilyn. Traffic droned around us like subliminal advertisements beneath the sounds of random talk and the wind itself. The low, westerly clouds caught light from the city--that unctuous, orange sodium vapor glow, and as a low, roiling bolus of condensation passed the Hancock Tower, the brute, taper of the tower itself darkened a wake, while casting an indescribably bluish/whitish/greenish glow into the nearest body of the cloud. I paused, stole three shots of the spectacle, then ambled across the street and into the Westin lobby with Corey, and started a brilliant evening with lots of good company and Persian food. It's funny, I can still taste the dill rice, and I'll probably always think of Persian food when I see the John Hancock Tower at night, spewing light into a low, passing cloud.