norðurrós

The embers are still glowing on the Island in the City. The night is smoky dark. We'll have to wait for morning to see whether the rumors are true, that one great rose still blooms in the north face.

skam

Hva da?

Watch too much tv, and last night's dreams all take place on the linguistic edge of Norway, where it borders Iceland's looming bulk. (On my personal map, Iceland has long since outgrown Norway. The words are piled up so deep they've become glassy blue glacial ice, an Orðafjallajökull.) All my sentences started on Oslo's West Side—okay, some in Løkka—but once off the ground, the austanátt would blow them well out to sea, where they would splash down with a finnst þér ekki, ef segja má, í alvöru talað, einum of. My interlocutor's brow would furrow and I'd fumble around in my own mouth for the phrase, embarassed. 

Æ fyrirgefðu, sorrí, unnskyld, men det er så ekstremt mye islandsk ofaná, på toppen lissom. La meg grave litt.