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midnight sun.

so i’ll run to a place where in the summer, the midnight sun does not set, and where the landscape, rugged and raw, and as fragile as it is untameable, powerful, is bathed in golden light, light which, without rest, and making up for the brevity of a milder, far north climate, gifts delicate life to countless fields of tiny wild flowers; heather, cloudberries, willows, carpets of cottongrass for reindeer to graze on, a sprinkling of pastel colour, piercing the arctic tundra’s earthy hues of browns, greys, deep coal blacks.

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