closed on sundays

Still a day behind on sleep. Out to Djurgården to walk it off. Bronze in the park, masts rising through a museum roof, the Nordiska holding the skyline.

The city signs itself everywhere, even underfoot.

Sunday in Stockholm, the kitchens dark. Almost everything closed. The one open door was Vietnamese again. Crackling pork over noodles, rolls folded into cool lettuce.

A clinic window put it plainly. If no one can tell what you did, you did it right.