Sometimes we forget which day of the week it is. The house smells after bread and the wood that burns in our oven. The wood that fills our rooms with warmth. Each day there is a little bit more snow. Only until the white flakes turn into soft drops of water. The mornings start to get brighter and I see the fog crawling over the river to the neighbours village. A few minutes later I’m right there, in the middle of nowhere. In a place that has no end and no beginning.