You pull faces at a sun that doesn’t quite set. The wind speaks Scandinavian tongues and the trees shiver and sway—hypnotic waltz in the mind. Lakehouses creak in tune with your grandmother’s bones; scent of pine intoxicating every stretch of your capillaries. Marimekko fabric brushes your lover’s pale skin. Just yesterday a goldfish drowned on the kitchen floorboards. You trace the outline of someone long dead and like each breath before the last you slowly begin to forget.