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I remember standing there, in front of it, photographing it. This was a bit over a decade ago. The excact words didn’t occur to me at the time, but the feeling can be described as “I don’t want to be here, I need to get away from here”. It wasn’t so much about the building, or the street, but the town. In a larger context, the here. Yet today, thirteen years later, there I was—behind it this time, above it—photographing it. Again.

Today though, the aforementioned feeling didn’t creep in until later, when looking at the photograph on the computer screen. The tone has shifted as well, it has become more like: “I should move, when I get the chance”.

Back then, there was also some snow. Not much, a bit more than today perhaps. At the time it was very welcome. It was my first winter in Bergen Norway, and as I remember it started raining in october. Rained until april, with the exception of four or five days of snow. And it felt like someone had lit the place up, after being turned off for months.

I’m exaggerating of course. Memory tends to do that.

Ever since that day 13 years ago this simple apartment building has told me the same thing, over and over. “Pack up and leave. There is nothing here for you”. It doesn’t know the half of it, but that hasn’t stopped it from going on about it.

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