Kristín Valtýsdóttir wanders in spirals under a silver sky, bent, her fingers pinched and pulling, as if she were drawing a thread from the seam of the ground. A clack and a rattle as another one drops into her hand, she gathers the tiny stones strewn about like the sea’s kitten-teeth. Filling her pockets, sifted by her swaying skirt, they weigh her down.
Back inside the lighthouse, she pours them out of her funneled hands. The stony downpour of exuberance causes daydreaming computers to wake and warm to life, babbling hiccup glitches and the electronic laughter of birds into the cups of her ears.
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