Walking the trails in Tromsø, I imagine the nature speaking to me: “Heed attention,” it says, and then thunders through light and snow: “I never lie to myself.” Suddenly I feel empowered. My pace picks up speed, and I fly over the ice. Whoa! My body is lean and slim and arches in the air like a well-fit tightrope across two mountaintops. The magnetism of the North Pole smuggles me over to my natural state of ashes to ashes in progress. I pulverize culture. I banish words such as ‘responsibility’ and ‘reflection.’ Tall Norwegians pass me by and find me attractive. They can sense the Snow Queen and the Ice Witch at work, making love potions. I can fuck anything here, though not all is worth the while. "I don’t lie to myself,” nature says, and I hear myself banishing all insults to where they came from. Non serviam serves me well as a spell. I wonder what else I should throw into the pot: the sound of my force clenching the fire. The truth is that I am the One.


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