Dröm Stuga (Dream Cottage in Swedish) is an island on an endless northern sea. A hypnagogic mirage, a colored spot, the stab of an afterimage with which the lamp one has just turned off wounds the palpebral night. It is the polar equivalent of that all too well known tropical counterpart. You know the one I mean, the idiot romance of a sweltering island of sand and coconuts. But of what use could such an island possibly have for the author? She is weary of equatorial living with its overexposed skin and gusty palms and burning bright days. Everything constantly melting together, the body disappearing. Her mind prefers to wander over into a wintry landscape. She sees a warm cabin enveloping her like an extra layer against the penetrating northern skies. Here body temperature itself becomes an island, an amber glow surrounded by the sturdy and almost ancient trees. It is the first and last island, without prophets, without legends, unadorned. This small island shimmers in its perfect isolation and becomes her lost continent.