Look, there’s something about walking in the night, and the weird, phantom edge where the mountains meet the sky in the dark that turns the whole horizon into a scrying dish.
And it’s like, for real, sometimes I feel like there is another me — an other me — out in the woods, up in the granite canyons, waiting in the day, waiting in the dark, waiting for me? I feel like sometimes I turn in the dark, and I can see him see me.
It’s as if I learn old things and it feels instead like I am remembering because they are things he already knows — I can hear him nod: When I learned about karhunpeijaiset, when I saw schariwari for the first time, when I read the story of Koschei, and the hiding of his death.
Sometimes I listen to the news and imagine some unnamed disaster in the valley, some catastrophe that ends all of this here, and I it’s like I instinctively think “we would flee to the mountains, and go live with —” and I catch myself short because live with who? But it’s like even as I wonder that I can feel the sense of a stone chair in the woods, a small sharp knife, and a hulking shape lurking behind.