I had a year. A year to realise. A wood, inside this platform called the Wood. I sucked the lemon seeds until they no longer tasted of lemon. I dreamed. Of the abandoned house on the Faroe islands. The same dream that I have had for a long time. In between I worked at a call centre, calling to Norway, calling home. Where the real woods are, the ones that scares and awes me. The ones that have always been, because my time is historically speaking quite small. In the house on the island there is a wood growing, similar to my wood, sheltered by the walls of the house that used to shelter us. Growing in silence like a pine tree in the lung of a russian man in the newspapers of the magical fantastic unrealistic and meaningless news. After a year, I invited you in, I gave you a snack pack, nuts and seeds, in order to survive. Maybe we talked a little, maybe we didn’t. Maybe you got lost. Maybe there was a storm, it certainly was foggy. And then you went away, then the wood went away, then I went away.