Seasons passed through trees and bushes, snow melted and snow fell, the leaf from a potted plant fell off, and dust settled on the windowsill. Time was moving relentlessly, always at work; it flowed and rippled like water under the blanket of snow, emptying itself. And the world stood still and allowed itself to be emptied, a still life, a skeleton, a meticulously assembled sculpture of dead time. I was part of that that sculpture, strapped to the great stationary wheel of frozen time. I had the slow gnawing sensation that this wasn’t where my life was. Somewhere beyond my reach, life was ongoing, my own life as well as everyone else’s. But I wasn’t invited to participate in it.

Elisabeth Rynell, from To Mervas (Archipelago Books, 2008)