Egil Möller 1997-1998, 2001, 2003, 2005 Egil Möller and Paul Westwood 2006 english

Lonlieness is our greatest enemy, even if not many admits it. And even with our dearest friends around us, yes even when we are with the one we love, are we alone...

Once uppon a time there was a bird living in a cage in the home of a small boy. He'd got the bird as a birthday present from his father, and he was so happy. Everyday the boy fed, watered and talked to the bird. He brought it out with him on his excursions to the forrest, and he showed it all his precious hideouts there. But the bird was silent, it never answered him when he talked to it, and even though it seemed to like being carried out in the forest, and it looked interrested at all of his hideouts, it wasnt happy. One evening when the boy came home from the forest with his bird, just as the sun was about to set, he asked it why it wasn't happy. He wished so much for it to be happy, just like him. As usual, the bird didn't reply, because as you well know, birds can't do that. But it looked up at the open window, where you could see some birds passing by, with envy and sorrow in its eyes. The boy looked at the birds for a long time, and then, without uttering a word, he carried the cage to the window and opened its gate. The boy stood there, in the open window, for a long, long time, watching the bird slowly disappearing in the distance. He took the cage and carried it out in the woods, and he talked to the bird that didn't reply, since it wasn't there. Every day thereafter the boy did as usual, he showed the forest and all his precious hideouts to the bird that had flown away. 2.8../../../Art/Pictures/Pen sketches/picturesFaageln The sun casts long rays along the ground, between the trees that stand sparesly in the park, over the young who sit in the grass, or walk arm in arm. In the middle of all this life, in the middle of the spring, there's an old man sitting on a wooden bench, his face turned towards the sun. He's placed his hat at his side, and his overcoat hangs over the bench. He shades his eyes with one hand and looks past the sun, out in the clear eavening sky. A young couple passes by, hand in hand. Two boys. For a moment they obscure his sky. He raises his fist towards them, as if trying to swipe them away. Not because they're boys, not because they're in love, or perhaps a little bit for that, but because they are young, because they are in his way, because they are cute, lovely and loving. He doesn't like the loving, the old man. They're at their worst in the spring, when they sworm the place like slugs after rain. Slimeing their way through the park, leaving a trace of pink (slisk). No, he much preferes those of his own age. Their bodies and thoughts have long since forgotten how it once felt to be like that. Now they are shrunken and dried like raisins. Now they resemble him fully. That is probably the main reason he dislikes youth, that he never got to be like them, that he was like he is now, all along. They are past him now, his view once more undisturbed, and he forgives them, oh he forgives them, for they give him life for a second while he watches them. At least he gets to sit there on the bench and watch life, even if he can't live it. They don't know what they have given him - a piece of their love. He can live on that for days. And a tear finds its way down from his blue eye. If you take bus 324 to its final destination, and the bicycles for 9 k along a dirt road shaded from all sun by beeches, the few days the sun actually shines, you get to a small unpainted gray wooden cottage with a corrogated steel roof. The only thing revealing that the house isn't abandoned several years ago is a parabol antenna on a pole in the overgrown gardern. It's late, it's pitch black and it's raining so heavily that even the hardy weeds in the garden has been thrown to the ground. The only light around is the blue flickering light of a computer-screen in one of the windows. There is a boy, but he preferes to think of himself as a yung man, in front of the screen. His finger caressing the keyboard, barely leaving it, his sight lost far off in the world of icons and texts. There is a distant thunder and the boy spells out a few commands, misspells them and has to redo it several times. He is stressed, sweat surfacing on his forehead. Finally, the screen is empty except for the message "Computer correctly taken down for system maintance. Please turn off main power." in red. The boy quickly disconects all cables, grabs a (filt) from the bed, wraps himself in it and lays down, or rather falles down, into the bed. He's tired, he hasn't slept for the last 35 hours... He dreams, about Endia, the girl in the class above his. She's like everybody else, talking about unimportant thing, but still not really. She has changed, or is it he who has changed? Is he slowly becoming one of them? Oh, he hates them, all those users, who think they know everything, but who know nothing and asks about everything fifteen times after you've explained it to them. He can still feel the hate that welled up inside him when the teacher warned him about the trace program. .... This story has not yet been translated. Please come back later or check-out the swedish version. about This text is free software; you can redistribute it and/or modify it under the terms of the GNU General Public License as published by the Free Software Foundation; either version 2 of the License, or (at your option) any later version. This text is distributed in the hope that it will be useful, but WITHOUT ANY WARRANTY; without even the implied warranty of MERCHANTABILITY or FITNESS FOR A PARTICULAR PURPOSE. See the GNU General Public License for more details. You should have received a copy of the GNU General Public License along with this program; if not, write to the Free Software Foundation, Inc., 59 Temple Place, Suite 330, Boston, MA 02111-1307 USA