The Ocean Doesn’t Care

The Ocean Doesn’t Care – Now – We drive West from the airport to where the rivers meet. For eight years, several hundred kilometers have lain between the Arctic circle and me. I’d forgotten that here nothing escapes scars. The shapes of the mountains, with sharp lines like screams, tell of millennia-long torture by ice. The birch trees, suffering from a disease, are withered and yellowing despite the spring. Trolled is the word for everything unsettling. We pass a trolled river which, for some reason my mother can’t remember, looks as if it’s running up the mountain. I play...

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