Another rainy day. I've been cycling for weeks now in the constant worry of being forced to seek for solutions to stay reasonably dry. I drift through the immense Swedish forests of coniferous, that after the rain release a sweet and pungent smell that brings my mind back to Asian and Middle Eastern spice markets. Other journeys that today seem to belong to times so remote that could not be possibly mine. It's the traveller's dilation of time, where a day still lasts 24 hours, but the density of present events pushes the past ones in far-flung, almost unfathomable cells of memory. I'm cycling along the road 239, a hilly and desolate blade of tar that leads to the Norwegian border. The region is an endless of forests and lakes, the smaller ones not even marked
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