I gaze out into the Swedish wilderness as I write. The small cabin is cold. The candleholder has dusty wax drooping over its edges, each drop a compressed story of former days and lives. The trees outside sway in rapid bursts, the sharp wind piercing the soundscape and the landscape.
What do I fold in and fold out?
What do I fold in and fold out?
What do I fold in and fold out?
I gaze out into the Swedish wilderness as I write. The small cabin is cold. The candleholder has dusty wax drooping over its edges, each drop a compressed story of former days and lives. The trees outside sway in rapid bursts, the sharp wind piercing the soundscape and the landscape.