When I was a boy I often lay for hours staring up into the summer sky for a hole into heaven or a lazy angel daydreaming on a cloud who’d forgotten old God’s strict orders never to be seen by us people from down on this earth.
In middle age my search for God had taken me all the way to the southern tip of Africa, but his trail was as fleeting as the banks of mist that rolled in from the Atlantic to mist up my windowpane as I tried to create a portrait of a person, who might only be a rumour.

Jon Bang Carlsen.