Write about Iceland, who cares.

“I’m going to write a poem about Iceland,” she said to her cigarette.

“Why Iceland?” I asked, despite its irrelevancy. Write about Iceland, who cares.

“Because I love Sigur Rós. And I think it’s an amazing place. Hauntingly enchanting. Like what it would be like to live on the Moon if the Moon were just enough like Earth that you could live there.” Mumbled between pen scratches.

“Have you ever been there?”


“Well… Don’t you want to go?”

“Sure, I want to. But going isn’t necessary. Being’s all that matters.”

“Come again?”

“It’s love. It’s not a place you have to go. You just appreciate the fact that it exists. You know your real experience of it can’t live up to your dream of it, really. So you let it sit out of reach, just there, and write about the idealized impression of it in your mind, more beautiful than reality, and you never get disappointed.”

“And you never live. You do realize Iceland’s bankrupt, right?”

“My point exactly.”

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