Where is the island? under water? up in the clouds? Josephine lives there, all alone. Has been for centuries. Never get old, never gets reborn. She's eternal. She is my soul. The one I cannot reach and rejoice in. Desolation is her name. Living abandonned from all and everyone, in a cold limbo of grey hope and soft despair. And you wonder why I love the North, Nordic Noir, winter and solitude...All our souls have abodes, landscape and atmosphere. This is my soul. A lost island in a parallel universe of grey fog, cold clouds, and unforgiving ocean. No one is welcome. No one ever comes anyway.
Josephine has rituals. Like visiting the shore every morning at dawn. A bottle might have strayed there. With a message. A content. A connection. So far the shore has never given any. Just sands, rocks, and drift wood. Shells and birds corpses. Empty handed and empty hearted, Josephine goes back to the house. And wait some more. Sometimes tears come to my soul. I am Josephine's envoy here. But not a very good one. I have failed her. I have failed my life.
