Yesterday I went back to my old home to pack my things. Inside awaited me the silence of Sundays without electricity: the air was slightly damp. It's never easy to pack your life into boxes, but in darkness it is even harder. I filled the room with small candles and used a torch and a reading-light. In the twilight, I still find myself having to make hard choices, like if Goethe's Italian Journal should go to Fiction or Non-Fiction. Finally it was nearly over; I still haven't ventured into the kitchen. In the back of the house, two potatoes are spreading their roots, like huge arms searching for the switch. Small potato treas, from some Nordish fairy tale.