Trafika Europe 1 - Northern Idyll


Wherever we are, there’s always someone further north. Only at the pole would a compass twirl round, seek magnetic certainty. Wherever we are on this spinning hemisphere Polaris tracks our staggering steps. She’s pinned to the firmament; a support. Wherever we are, north is a state of mind with no slack: earth’s stitches taken in, the top grafted off. Wherever we are, a scanner would suspect our identity the way a stick of rock displays its origin. Wherever we are, slipped loose like homing pigeons, there is a path north. Something keeps tugging that invisible thread.


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