Author: Hanna Riisager

I see the subject allthe time in front of me, see all thesesmall rituals.How it lies on the sofa and waitsfor me to come.The wind pushes moirés of ice and snowagainst the windowpane. An undulating, pearl gray surface –silk bark.My brain’s pale tissues unfold in the room in a billowing mass.I’m floating under the roof, looking…