Call me Kid A, capitalising on my foreign-power language, breezily erasing any thoughts of running aside to land here, finally, in this new town. Way below zero I go, plunging into a new career just as the Metro escalators do, with no thought or choice, only a strange drive to run, and run again, north. Call me Bowie, or at least his knife, cutting through forms, bureaucratic mazes, wintery shopping malls, towards a real future packed tight as snow in a drainpipe, or between rails. My plans to map the vortices of the city’s public transport take a backseat to idle wine, to Tarkovsky’s Solaris (1972). Call me Yesterday, the prosody of Vreten Tunnelbana station piercing my southern naivete with its sharp blue cubes, its friendly, if cold, silence. Here is a place I could sit for hours, I think, looping through Low (1977) towards another place, where non-descript bars hide agonies, their private dreams. Call me An Economic Asset, working my way through this crowd of extras sent here to test my resolve. Outside, all the trains are full of snow, or maybe fluffy clouds. I wanted to send you a photograph of the view from behind my eyes but the light, by then, was dim and the daze had disappeared.