You’re on a hill somewhere on an dark, stormy island covered in little pine trees. Black helicopters roar through the air, blasting cavernous thunder over the sea. You are vaguely aware that nobody is piloting the helicopters, nor are they operated electronically. The sun has never appeared, it is always night here and it is always cloudy on the cusp of rain. The copters come and go, but you live here forever in an empty wooden palace. The palace is painted in enamel – black with intricate, white patterns and incomprehensible scenes of the deepest beauty. You don’t know where you are but you do know that your love from the snowy place isn’t here anymore, and that you have suppressed memories about the experiences you had in places that you can’t name or point to.