Saturday, January 09, 2010


Through the train window I look out over the frozen beach promenade. Moments later the sea disappears and the train continues its familiar climb into Pålsjö skog. For long this was the epicentre of my dreams, a site of permanence and solace. In its steep beech forests, much of what once mattered has passed.

All which would have been sufficient if my life was a novel. But it is not and then it would be simply tragic to try to reduce it into one. Instead, it should be painfully clear that the narration is open-ended and that we alone are responsible for keep filling the pages.


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