I'm old enough to become overwhelmed by the smallest occurrence, the tiniest change of perspective, the least of the least. I see the light just as it explodes. Some things become obvious just as they cease. I fasten my skis, put on my face and head into the wind. Nobody is there, except everybody; the sharp acupuncture nails of the corn snow, the windy voices of the gale out of the semi-darkness and the voices in my head of cosmic creatures that brought me here through the hidden silence in the noise of the extended here and now: Mother Viola, friends like Sune, Sture, Kjellström, foes, poets, painters, writers, musicians, passers-by. I'm a flickering flare in this faceless, head-on reckoning of days, on skis, dressed in my windproof face and the howling strength of a general disobedience, on the edge of myself; everything an out-of-tune madrigal, persistent in the storm, while emotions flow across the field of vision.