þriðjudagur, nóvember 08, 2005


There is no gable beam in this house, but if there were, I would swear that some ill vættr were riding it. The wind blew up some time last night and every hinged and shuttered thing is a-squeak. Outside, the air is rushing through pineneedles and branches, over roofs and around housecorners, doubling ever back and never tiring. It is less striking in the dark than in the day that something so great and so invisible - the air, look you - can writhe and twist so violently.

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