nordover

Driving hours in the dark you fantasize that you don't know what country you are in. You do know, but what if you should forget, just for a moment? Lights on highways sweeping away from you look like lights on any other road receding into the cramped space of perspective. Those look enough like the lights on Miklabraut seen from Kringlumýri. The thrum of the car against the road is the same here as elsewhere. You could have anything in the CD player, and what you have now is southern rock, but before the sun went down you were singing along: Þú skilur, þú skilur, þú skilur á milli ... Too many trucks, too many lanes, but you know this little port town sprawls further every year, you can pretend to hope that those lights ahead are the city creeping up onto the heath.