Land of the midnight sun
Yukon Territory, Canada.

 

This is defiantly not Switzerland.

Time becomes sticky and eventually morphs into a single existence.

Weeks and months pass in one perpetual everlasting continuum of a day that NEVER ENDS!

Night does not follow day; day does not follow night. Spring, summer, winter, and fall are redundant reminders of a calendar that is of little use. It is light or dark, hot or cold. Nothing more.

 

The more north you head the longer the days become until at some point the sun dips below the horizon for but an hour or two and the sky never has the chance to get dark. Omer, who is well versed in the habit of sleeping well into the afternoon, is not having much of a problem adjusting to the new order of light. I, on the other hand, have found a common allay in those middle aged single women who roam the hallowed hunting grounds of O.Z. in search of a man; my biological clock is going CrAzY!!! I donít know when to sleep. I donít know when to eat. I have lost track of days, hours, kilometers or whatever it is they use to keep track of time up here. Insanity, the likes of which is usually associated with interrogation chambers at former members of the Soviet Union is beginning to set in. My eyes want the light to eventually stop, some finality to connect with the cyclical existence we live in. But all I see hour after hour is the same tundra, baked under the midnight sun.

 

Ha ha ha ha hahahhahahahahahha