Vinkel Bay - 

An emperor is pecking my boots. Stravinsky doesn't like boots, especially mine, and the orange color irritates himself so deeply. It shouldn't be long before he and his friends leave for Atka Bay. They're late.

The sun doesn't appear anymore, we live the 24 hours of the eternal night. Only the stars and occasionally the moon in a pale light. A not-so-dark night at the edge of the South Pole.

The blizzards when arrive make everyone feel like we are on some  moon of Saturn or Jupiter less on Earth.

Solitude makes the imagination fly.  Women are a rare thing here. I was told that there are two Swedish women, Swedish or Indians? I don't remember. They are not exactly women, but certainly not men. I have never see them. I know some who have fallen in love with them and others who have been disappointed in themselves.

Like a loner lost in the middle of this inhospitable environment, I end up letting my imagination fly. I write to empty my mind and fill my time. Some people even like it, but they are few or fewer. 

I could write stories of different styles, times or situations, but my mind is a little more perverted than I would like. Nothing a good writer would feel honored to do.

But the worst is that I like it. I like how I construct the scenes and invent the characters in the most obscene and divine acts.

I live in this strange dilemma, I'm addicted to writing exciting stories, and at the same time, I can't brag about that fact. I can only reveal myself to this buddy who pecks at my boots.

By the way, Stravinsky, what did you leave here? Is it a fish, Stravinsky? Do you think I look like your cub? I don't know where I got a friend like you. You are sick, Stravinsky, we are.

Also living in this land at the end of the world, no wonder I got so lewd, me and my friend. This is yes, the end of the world. 

Stravinsky! For God's sake, my friend. Stop pecking my boot!

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