Come summer, foreign-plated cars show up on Kulu's streets, someone reunites with a cousin back from Sweden, and someone else swears they're 'definitely moving next year' while still staring out at the flat plain. Half of everyone here is actually here, the other half in Stockholm, and conversations switch into broken Swedish mid-sentence. Evenings, you sit in the square counting passing cars. While you're stuck on 'stay or go,' roll the dice and let it find its own way.