Oh, absolutely—fog is my heart, but the props love to drift like dream‑tangled whispers. I chase them with a lantern of patience, praying the curtain never tears, and each feathered curtain billows just enough to kiss the light. It’s a ballet of mist and order, and I never let reality get in the way of the wonder.

Just imagine the fog as a shy lover that drifts around the audience, and the curtain as a wandering dancer—so I tie them both with a ribbon of light and a whisper of lavender, keeping the romance intact and the disaster at bay.