miðvikudagur, ágúst 01, 2007


  • the grooves in the asphalt from studded winter tires
  • the worn dip in the wood from thousands of hands pushing open the locker room door
  • the smooth, blank faces of the keys from hours of typing
  • the sueded patches on my boots from the scraping of lava
  • the streaks down the flanks of Esja and Akrafjöll

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