In Norway, I'm out of time. Out of time in the sense of escaping it. This keeps me constant on all things, as being out time means being beyond change. But being beyond change does not mean being beyond expectance. A sense of waiting and anticipation always weighs on me the more I actually think of myself as being out of it. As I enjoyed the bacalao a la Kristiansund, after being on top of the city, marked by another sign, the Varde Tower—raised next to the witches stones—I thought of what acts might constitute a high form of poetry, apart from putting pen on paper, that is. Waiting must be one of them, for what can be more poetic than expressing waiting beyond time, waiting beyond change, which is time's corollary, and waiting beyond words that express even that which one is waiting for? What is also equally poetic is what we know beyond time, although such knowing is usually the result of struggling with ambiguity and exorcising skepticism out if its limits. Then, reconciliation. The one between words and silence. The wind in the willow tells us the rest and, perhaps, what we also need to hear.