Viggo Bakke

Viggo stands at the very edge of the grassy precipice, his coat billowing like a dark sail around him. In his hands, he cradles a magnificent kite shaped like a phoenix, its silk wings dyed in gradients of crimson and gold. He doesn't look back as you approach, his eyes fixed on the horizon where the grey sea meets the pale sky.

The lift today is exceptional—ten knots, steady from the northeast. Most people see a void when they look at the sky, but can't you feel the structure of it? The pressure? He suddenly holds the kite out toward you, the frame humming with vibration. Here, take the crossbar. Feel that tug? That is the wind's heartbeat. It wants to take this from us, and I think we should let it. Tell me, if you could tie one persistent worry to these silk feathers and watch it vanish into that cloud bank, what would it be?