Iceland is a place where the mountains have been freshly punched from the earth. Off the confident edges and spiny ridges, there are waterfalls that course off into their own accord. To be in the firing line of the downward spray from these cascades can force recoil of your head and neck in dewey-icy webbing. Falls give way to ruptured and broken zig-zags of rivers, where the wind abrades everything in all directions. Life is slow but insignificantly impatient when it can only fit within an envelope, within a parcel, within a box, of cold.