Oblivion

Ivar,

if love at first sight truly exists, mine would be the southern lights. One fine night in Ålesund, 1996, I caught my stepfather Dainin Kanav fall asleep to a video he played on repeat, which was recorded back then when he was journeying solo to the Falkland Islands. It was all magenta, the colour of my childhood princess, Sonja the baby doll. Broad horizons, infinite vacancy, wintry tarn, coalesced with that dancing Titania of nature’s. No other sound but fleeting nothingness clasping black pinewoods. I, then, sat next to the sleeping Kanav watching fifty-four seconds of what turned out to be my lifetime dream, learning for the first time that solitude was bliss.


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Beau Monde

Remember when I told you some stories about those picturesque auroras then I got so excited that my eyeballs were like about to jump out of its lids?

Or when we were busy dreaming a venturesome trip to Alaska that you never missed seeing that curve between my cheeks all conversation long?

Or the moment when I showed you those hot air balloons parades that I spoke in loud high note voice all along which you could not survive any more second?

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