ARN

The winds are warm. Stockholm lies still, basking, the waters blue again and whispering of night swims in summer. I rushed, I always rush but there was plenty of time and in the end I wait, after all. Knowing the woman behind the counter, knowing the routine, I could walk them blindfolded, the glass building smells like home. I follow the signs, follow the feeling, feel my body sink into the comfort of recognition.

Clouds roll in over asphalt landscapes, no matter.

The skies above are endless.