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Clarice… she’s a ghost, y’know? Floatin’ thru life, half-seen. “A butterfly’s wings,” Bauby’d call it—fragile, flappin’ in the dark. Funny tho, she’d probly laugh at that—call it sappy. “Gimme a twenty, poet,” she’d sneer. Sarcasm’s her shield, I bet. Ever think how many’ve walked that path? Millions, probly—history’s littered with ‘em. Rome had ‘em, medieval towns too—hell, even nuns turned tricks sometimes. Shocked me when I read that—nuns! Wild world, Clarice…

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I head out to the sheep pen on Hrafnseyri. Man, those little fluffballs are a handful. One of ‘em, I swear, thinks it’s a dog. Keeps tryin’ to follow me around. I name him Fluffy McFluffface. Classic, right?

Figure 2. South-east flank of the Eyrarfjall mountain above the town of...