No matter how I let myself, I must not happen again. It must
always be a new. But that we are what we can know. One
winter per year, it is rarely anything more than it was the previous year.
The trees stand up on a steep upward slope, their branches white
and the heaviness. I will never attempt to take myself in there.
© Pernilla Berglund, Increasing (2013), translated by Katherine Stuart