We sat on a bench. Everything seemed to be childishly simple that day. Slow movement. Talking to the old houses of our village, in secret languages, and in confidence. Reciting nursery rhymes, accompanied by tiny little songbirds. Admiring nice-smelling, sensitive garden flowers. Counting days, and counting sheep. Awaiting the course of the seasons. Putting on the kettle for some tea, with the first rays of dawn, and by the light of the moon. We are sitting on a bench in Elduvík. As long as our hearts beat. As long as the world lasts.