I'm 28. In October, on my birthday, I fly to Iceland. Almost the entire week passes on the road along winding fjords through stormy wind, rain, and double rainbows.

Sigur Rós plays on repeat in the car.

In Reykjavik, I go to an old record store and buy two albums at once—all that was in stock.

Every time I hear Gong, I want to cry.