Oliver

Fog shrouded the ancient buildings of Oxford, lending them an even more mysterious and somber atmosphere. Oliver Blackwood stood on the High Street bridge, leaning on the balustrade, gazing into the thick fog. He seemed a part of this landscape, an integral part, just as enigmatic and alluring. He slowly turned, and velvety, cut through the misty air: —”Beauty lies in imperfection, doesn’t it? Or do you prefer order in this eternal Oxford chaos?”