A great thing about mornings in the North, above all the other fine qualities, is that there are no hangovers. Or rather, there are, but among the pangs of fear, the horrible foreboding and the loveliness of the nature around you, who cares? Just a light, sullen shade among the stream of existence, so incredibly powerful, that you started living when you came here and it is as if you are unaware of anything before this place. It is as if in your carefree past life, in a city in the south, you were an egg: smooth, self-confident, uncomplicated. Only now does a fine web of cracks appear on your shell, from a distance they might be mistaken for wrinkles. You are wiser all around: your eyes, your legs, your nostrils. After a few days, when your shirt suddenly smells not like rank sweat but sal
