You're standing on the scaffold, up by the roof, it's minus 3 Celsius, feels like twenty. You wonder why your ancestors decided to hike up here that time. What infernal desire drove them? What demonic power?
North is the compass of death, of shadows. South of joy, lust for life, East of wisdom, Sofia, West of strength, power, our suns aim. But north? Only trolls, forest dwellers, the pond kind... King Bore's realm.. Where roads suddenly end. The home of the exiled and outlaws. Lovesick girls tie their bloody, soiled cloths to a branch along a north-flowing stream. It will ensnare him, the beautiful, lively, blind young man. Even the saintliest of saints smile in agreement when love turns to black magic though.

Either way. Icy cold. Inhumane. You stand there and your fingers want to fall off, out of pure self-preservation. You curse your entire lineage. Why here and not there, shaded by chinese apples, olive groves? Why not like Munthe, the wise doctor of Capri? Why not follow him? Why live and die yet another lifetime here? I remember 17th-century winters, I remember campaigns in Finland, I remember Von Döbeln, I remember gods in trees, I remember the lands of yews, I remember the primeval tundra.

But then..

The sun. Mid-March. A month most beloved by the gods. The month of spiraling love. The month of multiple orgasms. Demeter! Demeter! Let me eat your awakened pussy! Let me gently blow away the dust of death! I see her from up here, I thaw, melting ice turns into warm tears. I see her, in her climacools. Her North Face puffer hides nothing ,, I see every single birthmark, I see her grandmother's and her grandmother's birthmarks.. Me and my thousand deliquesce ancestors impregnate them one by one year after year after year after year. That is our calling. In Dionysian frenzy. Simple human laws do not apply here,, outer worldly domains . Move over! The Poles whistle. You whistle you. We are already married, she and I, as far as I am concerned. As far as I am concerned, everything has already happened.