Mothers are there to protect the child, to chase away the monsters from our nightmares, not to be the feared monster. Not all Mother's Day are remembered with a reminiscent smile. The twisting of the soul began so long ago, that eighty years after it seems only yesterday. This book is about life, real life, the one many of us wish not to have been there, but we were, and nobody took the trouble to tell about. Fathers, supposed to protect the child should have been there too. "Bad memories" have a mother, her name? Solitude. This is book for those that like to sit in front of embers from a fire dying down, with a banked over the knees and a cup beside with someting warm in it. To read and to savor, to go places the reader has been before or never suspect it existed. This is a book for those don't wanting to forget poetry or a short storie with an unexpected twist. If any of the pages of this book brings a lonely tear or a smile I will be content. Read the lines with a background of soft music from classical adagios, curled on an old stuffed chair, because I heard that music when this book was written, in my head and in my heart. I wrote this book for the little child in everyone of you, which once, where looking throught the window at the rain outside, alone, wishing you had a friend. A globetrotter since he was twelve years old, the author handled life as punches taken and punches given, as a soldier, sailor and many other things. His wandering feet stopped a good few years in Norway, but drifted again, pausing in Sweden's Oxelosund, a little town by the sea, where the idea for this book kind of stopped wandering too. A globetrotter since he was twelve years old, the author handled life as punches taken and punches given, as a soldier, sailor and many other things. Economics pushed him away from Medcine studies with regrets, settling for Engineering wasn't too bad but a mean to climb out of hunger's reach. After getting dizzy going several times around the world, his wandering feet stopped a few good years in Norway, but drifted again, pausing in Sweden's Oxelosund, a little town by the sea, where he relax painting or making sculptures and where the idea for this book among very old papers kind of stopped wandering too. Mothers should be the monster's-chasers in their children nightmares, not be the monsters. Once one steps over a new born flower it will be not pretty anymore, just a deformed image of beauty. If you walk in the tunnel and at the end is The Lightdiscover then that you were going on the wrong direction all the time...