(THIS ARTICLE IS ONLY MACHINE TRANSLATED by Google from Norwegian)
My father worked at the paper mill in Skien, the town where I lived until I was six years old. I do not remember that it smelled so bad, we lived with the smell every single day after all. But people who came to visit Skien often said that it smelled prompt, something the city had in common with Moss. Do you remember the smell of moss? My father often came home with large rolls of paper that we dragged across the floor and frantically drew on. Thin and disgusting drawing paper, but we never ran out. You. . .
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