Unemployed for the last four and a half months, I have reached the point where I seriously ask myself if I have hit the end of the Scandinavian road. Perhaps the drying out of my words after the publishing of my latest novel was a tell-tale sign of an impending demise. The beginning of the slow road back to the roots. To where it all began. Closing a chapter and opening a new one in a different continent, a decade older and non the wiser. At the time when everyone in my story had their ending arch. Where the Danish girlfriend became the ex and then a happy mother. Where the friends got married and bought houses in the suburbs. Where the former colleagues turn into successful directors and managers and, for some reason, kept hanging out with me anyway. Where my apartment grew cosier but, in a way, never warm again after the departure of whom I loved last. And so it seems the conclusion arrives. The visa running out. The legality of my stay hanging from a very thin thread. And in a strange way I somewhat accept my fate. Perhaps the lack of drive and romance is nothing but a reminder of my fleeting permanence in the North, in the gray, in the cold. Maybe this is it. Maybe this was it. You and I and the space in time we shared. The bed we occupied. The beers and the wines we drank. The ice cream we devoured. The moments that froze in the memories stored on my iPhone, on my books and on my Instagram stories. And I am being overly dramatic when this is very cut and dry. But I am here saying goodbye. In the flat you visited. In the Chilean side of Frederiksberg. While I’m still here to prove the Danes that I fucking existed in their proximity for the better part of a decade.