Last night I watched as my six year old daughter wrote in a new hardcover notebook I ordered her. I always loved good notebooks but my parents wanted my writing to speak for itself, so I became used to jotting things down anywhere – even napkins if I got a good idea in the diner smoking section.

Everyone knew to get me bookstore gift cards for my birthday, so that's when I'd splurge on my new notebook for the year. it was so careful picking... so important, knowing so many future thoughts will be held in this one rectangle that was being selected in that moment. I recall the smell of the notebook section, with its various leather covers and types of paper. I recall my hesitation. truly spending hours examining the texture of notebook after notebook, the spacing between the lines, the thickness of the page – perhaps least importantly, though relevant, the picture. there were so many sealed in plastic wrap. every year I'd wonder if I was selling myself (okay, my gift cards) short by only choosing the ones I could touch. but I'm someone who could never order randomly off a menu.

In my senior year of high school I won first place for the local “readers writing” contest for a piece of short fiction titled “Jane”. The newspaper and it's accompanying magazine sent photographers and journalists with questions as clunky as their equipment.

The five hundred dollar gift card to Borders was more than worth my required presence at the ceremony and probably exactly worth the embarrassment of my short, awkward speech. Full grown adults truly looked touched, clutching my story as they searched my eyes for meaning I didn't have. I'll never forget the lone old man in the folding chair staring intently at me as I stood near the stack of “Jane”s nobody knew I wrote in a hurried frenzy during the last ten minutes of business class. I was keenly aware that my dad had chosen to teach his regularly scheduled Kung fu class over coming to witness adults fawning over the freestyle written story of his sixteen year old. “The published story as a matter of fact,” I thought, which made me stand a little straighter.

“What do you think it's about?”

Two loud taps near my feet snapped me back to the present moment. Suddenly the man was in front of me, wooden cane between us, asking a fair and simple question. I was taught by my father, quite sternly, to think quickly and cleverly when addressed, despite my knowledge on any subject or lack thereof.

Every interaction was a test that could be failed in a matter of micro seconds. My gaze drifted above the furrow of gray painting his expression, resting on a liver spot I decided was the shape of Italy.

“Well...,” and having not a clue what the meaning of my own work was, one syllable practically waddled out of my mouth singing and became three.

“L-oo-ve?”

It landed as a question. Clueless. Simple. Pathetic.

His little Italy rose along with his surprise as his eyes widened. I noticed a foggy film over one. He had been hoping for more. I'd built up these characters, acted deserving of five hundred dollars worth of plastic sealed (okay, mostly unsealed) thought containers, given this dumb speech just so -

“Because I think it's about obsession,” and his lips slowly curled upwards until they made a sort of sideways grin.

He just wanted someone to speak with about the piece and I just wanted my father to give a fuck that there was a piece whatsoever. This interaction was not a test. We only spoke for about ten minutes that night before he handed me a hastily folded scrap paper and went on his way – actually waddling through the automatic sliding doors. The further he went into the distance, the more his cane resembled any branch.

As it turns out, I wasn't wrong and he wasn't misguided. That night, I unsealed my first plastic wrapped journal which featured a sort of sad tree of life, mostly branches. The thick aroma of fresh leather filled me up as I unfolded the ripped page, apparently from a dictionary.

One word was highlighted, its definition underlined.

I used the adhesive from the seal to stick it to the back side of the branch ridden cover.

Limerence:

Limerence is often characterized as “one-sided” and focused on the uncertainty of the relationship, whereas Love involves a deeper, stable connection based on mutual care, trust, and acceptance of flaws.

it's always the algorithm that gives you away and that algortude to pair and the way you needed me suddenly that night after you dedicated it to us and we ended strong and you just wanted that late night feel but without her you couldn't imagine her so you wanted me but I was locked away where you normally keep me

she wasn't asking and you were distracting by doing and I thanked you for choosing me and you did and then when it turned late and I turned in as Friday nights are reserved, typically your loneliness expanded and though you didn't need me you wanted me to fill some space where she was absent

I didn't

tears, the following day weakness, admittedly – of which you never mention which never occurs looking back, she hurt you and she moved on and maybe it hurt, too, that your closest two truly closest were unreachable

I didn't know, truly I felt it as you prying like a friend afraid to be alone but I didn't realize the devastation I didn't realize you had been dumped I needed to pick you up

the hat, so I didn't see your tears? the hat the nervous looks the way you sat broken the way I thought you were harboring a child the way you were harboring a goodbye you likely tasted before you felt it

I hear you singing

and I had been

she is sleeping

and she had been

and there you landed in the middle with your thoughts and the lack of distraction and the hat

the next day you would say I abandoned you in the living room but I'm always in my room, the living room at best not abandoned, I'm told still, I'm singing

you'll hear me singing

we'll be singing, someday

today, I heard you singing.

beautiful, blessed, love of my life

my heart aches for your aching.

'maybe she did... did she?” in regards to you two doing face masks together, after I asked, hours ago.the tone of your voice swung upwards, as a question, near the end of the sentence.

“did she what?”

“no, I don't think she did. I thought maybe she wanted to do face masks that night”

“what night?”

“the night when I was in her bed.”

my heart aches for your aching. we both know. I will do everything I can to heal this. my heart aches for my own aching. I have been able to do nothing to that end.

“the night when I was in her bed”

did you or did you not do masks well I know but I love you

“when I was in her bed”

in her bed

her bed

I wake up early again today, following a pattern that has become an impromptu tradition. I swing by Tims first for a coffee (a medium French Vanilla this time), largely because nothing else is open. Then I make my way down to the Old Port. Taking a different route today, I walk down Boulevard Saint-Laurent, mounting the levees that once protected the city from river floods, before dropping back down to the banks to sit and write.

I'm always near water these days. Today, it's the pond right near the King Edward entrance—a body of water that passes for natural until you learn it's emptied each autumn and refilled each spring. The benches here sit low enough that the city appears to grow straight out of the water. Maybe that impermanence is why I'm facing it today, my back turned to the river and the tourist industries clinging to the industrial quays like barnacles to the hull of an ocean liner.

In the glare of my laptop screen, I can see the crane behind me that the bungee jumpers use. I've sat here enough times to watch a few of them drop. I still remember one whose head briefly dipped into the Saint Lawrence on the rebound: a baptism of sorts, a momentary connection with the ancestors. Yet, I am drawn back to this not-quite-pond, not-quite-fountain, with its calm waters and the grey limestone of Vieux-Montréal reflecting on the shimmering surface. Like many things in this city, the illusion breaks down the second you stand at the edge and look straight down; the usual sparse detritus of urban life sits at the bottom. But from this bench, with birds calling from all around me and the morning otherwise silent, it's more than enough.

I would like to supply a TLDR; for this document, but it's too long for there to be a simple summary. The closest would be the conclusion of the article, but there is a lot of information along the way that would be lost if you jump to that. Therefor, if you clicked on this article, I would recommend reading it completely.

Introduction

I read Jola's article The social contract of writing the other day, and was impressed by their well reasoned arguments. I then read the response from Segun Famisa: No. You can't tell it was written by AI, and felt that it was quite a bit off the point.

Jola's primary arguments were:

• The use of LLMs are homogenizing writing. Their repetitive use of specific idioms and patterns that are frequently occurring. Like, statistically too frequent to be an anomaly.
• Even if you don't use an LLM in your writing, you are being caught up in the blast-radius of LLM written works. These works have been tainted are affecting how you write.
• Writing that is assisted by the use of LLMs is a violation of the social contract between the author and their audience.

Segun, on the other hand, seems to have disagreed with concept that LLM assisted writing can be identified. He makes the arguments that:

• The tools used to identify LLM written works often fail.
• In order to judge a piece of writing you need to know the author of the work to determine if they wrote it.
• The reason for things like em-dashes, and unusual vocabulary is due more to the social background of the people who trained the LLMs.

There is a lot to be said about both of these pieces. I have some things that haven't been considered to toss into the discussion surrounding the use of LLMs in writing. And, along the way, I want to rebut a couple of the arguments that have been made.

I Am the Author

Before we dig into the exceptionally muddy waters of the ethical questions of using LLMs in writing it's necessary to be clear about this: I am the sole author of this article. Yes, I use some tools to assist in the writing of this article: (self-hosted) LanguageTool and Harper. Why? Because my grammar and spelling sucks.

But, rest assured, all the words on your screen were typed by me. All the awkward analogies, idioms, and other quirks of this text emerged from my mind, and not from an LLM. I will most certainly guarantee that this will lead vocabulary choices that are unusual, and may, therefore, not read in the same way that others might have written this.

And, I am the one making the choice to use properly formatted em-dashes and ellipses throughout this text. These have only been the convention for typeset prose since the invention of the movable type printing press by Johannes Gutenberg around the year 1440.

Donald Knuth spent years working on TeX, trying to find a way to automate properly typeset texts. Along the way he solved many problems that were far more complicated than anyone had thought they were. I don't understand why we don't honor the work of Knuth and use these machines to the fullest extent of their capabilities, especially when it comes to typesetting.

I do feel like these silly “tell-tales” were originally intended as a joke: “An em-dash? No one writes like that! Right?” and somewhere along the way the joke was lost.

Simple Tell-Tales Are a Lie

That's one of the first things I would like to contribute to the discussion. Simple, easy, tell-tales just aren't a reality. LLMs are not simple pieces of software that are just glorified “autocomplete” machines as some people would try to have us believe.

Even a cursory study of how an LLM is designed and trained will make this fact self-evident. While I am not an expert in this field (far from it), I have watched and read enough background information to have some appreciation for the complexity of the accomplishments in the field.

The facts are that there are many elements that go into an LLM:

• The design of the neural network
• The design of the model
• The algorithms used in the model
• The information used to train the model
• The people who performed the training
• The person(s) interacting with the model
• The bugs / shortcoming of the agents

This is only a top-level view of some of the factors. It's pretty clear that the resulting output from an LLM can be vastly different based on changes to any or all of these factors. This also points to the fact that this should still be considered a research technology, and not something that is being implemented as a tool for the public to use, In my opinion.

Given this level of complexity, how can we think that there are simple tell-tales for LLM written works? It's simply ridiculous.

There Are Indicators of LLM Writing

There is a whole field of study around linguistics which can, using varying methods be used to identify patterns in written language. This is often used with historically significant documents to verify the authorship of said documents.

How is this done? By analyzing works known to be authored by a person, and comparing the documents in question to the known writings of the author. This process involves numerous factors:

• Vocabulary of the author
• Unique grammatical constructs employed by the author
• The overall structure of a document
• The presentation of arguments, explanations, etc.
• Other narrative or exposition elements
• The references or supporting evidence

This idea of examining the constructs and patterns found within a document isn't limited to written bodies of work. These concepts are applied to analyze things like music compositions.

Then why have tools like OpenAI's AI Classifier failed?

Because it's kind of like a dog chasing its own tail. A dog generally chases its own tail not because it wants to catch it, but because the activity itself is fun. The dog knows how to catch its tail, it does so all the time by laying down bending over to get to its tail.

An LLM trying to analyze a text to determine its provenance is like the dog chasing its tail. It can do the assigned activity, but the results are unlikely to end in success. Why? Quite simply, an LLM is likely unable to make a distinction between the information it has been trained on versus information it has generated. In terms of an LLM these two things are equal. The LLM written document is the result of the information it was trained on. What things can it do to find a distinction?

The Author's Social Contract

This is a topic that authors discuss at length. The question of the relationship between an author and their audience is frequently questioned.

Take, for example, a mystery author. Just how much information do they have to present to the reader throughout the text to make the solution satisfying? Is there an issue with presenting too many facts that lead to the solution? What amount of misdirection is appropriate in a story? Where is the line between misdirection and confusing the reader to the point frustration?

Similarly, Science Fiction authors faced the dilemma of writing “hard” Sci-fi, aka basing the technology strictly on known science and technology, versus using known science and technology as the basis for more advanced systems. In some cases, is there a basis for inventing whole new scientific concepts or principles in order to introduce a new technology to their world. Where is the line? What will the reader accept or reject?

These, and many more, types of questions exist throughout all genres of fiction writing. And, likely exist through many more forms of written communication. This discussion is something that is not going away anytime in the future. And now, there is a new topic to add to this: what is the line with LLMs?

Jola's reference to the Oxide Computing RFD 576 brings a lot of subtlety to the questions surrounding the use of LLMs in writing. It simultaneously seems to be advocating for some roles for LLMs, while still acknowledging that there are issues and dangers in using LLMs.

The issue I see with this is there is little to no objective measurement for the effective use of LLMs in their environment. I see this as a missed thought that needs to be carefully addressed. For example, it is suggested that LLMs can be used as research assistants (which is something that I've thought about myself). However, the document warns of the propensity for LLMs to make things up, insert claims that aren't true, or hallucinate, or fail in other ways. Therefore, the user of the LLM for research needs to verify all the claims in the output, and go through all the references to make certain they are valid.

When I considered this question, I started to wonder what the impact would be on my personal research process? In other words, I wondered if the time that I would save would be sufficiently greater than the amount of time I needed to validate the work of the LLM? While I have no experiential data on which make such a judgment, I do have an experience that informed my thoughts on this topic.

A few years ago I asked ChatGPT to write a profile of an artist I am deeply familiar with. I asked it to write a profile under 500 words in length to be used in the liner notes for a new release by said artist. The results were scary. The first part was not all that bad, it got the artists real name, his approximate age, and the region of the world he was from. It then went on to explain his style of music, and his range within that style of music.

Then things fell completely apart. It started listing the most popular releases from the artist. First, several of the releases were little known works by him. But if that wasn't bad enough, it listed a work that he has publicly and widely disavowed. And, to take things to the last level: it made up two works.

I spent over an hour researching the releases, especially because I couldn't any reference to any of these works in the artists online discographies. Once I had determined all the facts surrounding those works, I went back to the LLM and challenged it on the works it had listed. It took numerous exchanges to get it to recognize the fictional works, but it would never explain where those works had come from. As for the disavowed work, it did acknowledge that the artist had disavowed it, but wouldn't answer why that work had been included on the list.

Realize, this is only a 500 word profile. About 2 pages of typewritten text. Several hours spent in validating, and interrogating the LLM about its output. This was a task that would have taken me approximately 30 minutes to complete. At this point I saw that using an LLM for such tasks had an actual negative impact on my work process.

Now, a sample set of one does not make for a good basis to draw broader conclusions. However, when considering what is the line with LLMs, it should be considered whether the use of the tool is going to significantly contribute to the quality of the work, or if it is going to become an unduly burdensome tool. While some roles, such as a proofreading or critiquing one's writing might be a viable and useful option, other areas such as researching, writing assistance, or editing a work might be more burden than useful.

Does AI Fit?

There is something that I have been thinking about. We have been worried that LLM writing are changing the way that we communicate. However, isn't that something that we have been doing throughout history? Consider a few brief examples.

Pens

Yeah, this might seem like a boring way to start things, but there are things that we have to consider, seriously.

The first writing implements were reeds or feathers that were cut to a point, and slit in them. When dipped into an ink pot they held a small amount of ink to allow a person to write. This was an actual advancement over earlier forms of writing. And, because of the limited education, at the time, only Royalty (and possibly extremely wealthy people) had access to these tools. From the quill, we moved on the dip pen. Same concept as before, but now we had nibs made from steel.

The next major change would be to what we now call “dropper” pens, but were referred to at the time as reservoir pens. These were pens where the barrel portion was treated as a reservoir which could be filled with ink. The ink would flow into a part of the pen known as the feed. The feed was connected to the nib, and supplied ink to it. There is a lot of uncertainty about when this was first invented. There are claims that such a pen was invented in the mid-900s in Egypt, but there is no physical evidence of such a pen existing. It is also believed that Leonardo da Vinci may have made one for his own use. His journals contain designs for such a pen, and it's notable that his journals reflect a more continuous ink flow than other writings of the same period. However, there is definitely evidence that there were reservoir pens being produced and sold in 17th century Germany.

Innovation in the design and manufacture of pens remained steady through the 19th century. However, at the beginning of the 20th century a new era of fountain pens was born when self-filling pens began hitting the market. These pens used various mechanisms to allow the pens to be filled by sucking ink into the barrel of the pen. These pens quickly became runaway hits with the general population.

However, their years were numbered. There were efforts to come up with what is known now as the ballpoint pen dating all the way back to the late 1880s. However, all the early versions of such a pen had problems with ink flow, reliability, and material choices. These were much the same issues that had plagued the progress in fountain pen development. However, László Bíró and his brother György decided to undertake this problem in the 1930s, and by 1938 they filed for their first patent for the Biro pen. After World War II, the design of the pen was refined, and eventually came down in price to the point where it was easily accessible to the general public, and quickly supplanted the fountain pen.

The first patented typewriter was developed in 1829. Known as the Typographer by William Austin Burt. (There were several machines before this one, but this is the first extensively documented machine.) In the mid-19th century the desire and need for speeding up communications brought the development of the typewriter to the forefront of technology. Typists, stenographers, and telegraphers could take down information at the rate of approximately 130 words per minute, whereas people writing with a pen tended to top out around 30 words per minute.

The first commercially successful typewriter was patented in 1868, and was sold under the name “Shoales and Glidden Typewriter”. In 1873 Remington would bring its first typewriter to market. In the early 1900s the design of typewriters reached a point where the design was somewhat standardized, and there were at least a dozen notable manufacturers of typewriters.

The first electric typewriter began production in 1900. However, the first practical electric typewriter wasn't produced until 1914, and successfully brought to market in 1920. From the 1920s to the 1940s the main company producing electric typewriters (Northeast Electric Company) changed hands several times, saw its typewriter division spun-off into a separate company, and was eventually acquired by IBM.

IBM would take the technology, and being producing its Electromatic series of typewriters, which introduced the ability to vary the spacing of the characters, producing a typewritten page the appeared more like a typeset document. In 1961 IBM would introduce the Selectric typewriter, which used a typeball, which could be changed, enabling different fonts or type styles to be achieved.

The final step in the development of the typewriter was the electronic (not to be confused with electric typewriters). Electronic typewriter distinctions were the use of the daisy wheel type head, and using circuitry to control the type head, instead of the purely mechanical mechanisms of the previous electric typewriter.

The typewriter market began to recede in the 1990s after the invention of the personal computer. Of course, much of the invention around the typewriter continues on today in the computer keyboards used by many people.

Getting to the Point

Why discuss the invention and progression of pens and typewriters? They are highly relevant to this discussion, as other communication inventions throughout the ages. These were just the two most direct examples that came to my mind.

What is worth considering is how did these technologies impact the work of creating written documents? The progress from using a quill / reed and ink or dip pens to the self filling fountain pens enabled writers to expand on their work. It made it easier for them to write in a continuous flow of thoughts. Writers like James Joyce and Ernest Hemingway were known to use fountain pens in composing their works. How much would they have been impacted if they only had a dip pen to work with? The invention of the ballpoint pen took writing to another level altogether, being more portable than fountain pens, and requiring fewer and less messy refills.

The typewriter removed many of the restrictions of the pen in terms of the speed at which a work could be produced, and the accuracy and legibility of the document produced by an author. The penmanship of the author was less of an issue. The speed at which a document could be typed was up to four times the speed of handwriting, and potentially higher with the invention of the electric and electronic typewriters. And, by the time electric and electronic typewriters emerged, the ability to correct the text as it was written was greatly improved.

We can move along and look at what the personal computer and the internet have enabled for authors… That is such a large topic I didn't even want to start writing about it.

Is AI Next?

Is AI the next fountain pen or typewriter? Is this a technology that will have impact on writing? That seems to be a foregone conclusion at this point as we look at the works that are being produced now.

The question then becomes where will AI fit in? AI is current still in its early stages, not the mature technology that the marketers and AI companies would like us to believe that it is. But, is there a point where it crosses the point of maturity and become a tool that is going to be seen in the same way as earlier tools were?

There were authors that resisted using typewriters. There were authors that resisted using specific brands of pens (there is a humorous story in which H. P. Lovecraft complained bitterly when he was forced to use a Conklin fountain pen after losing his Waterman pen. Meanwhile, Mark Twain was so in love with the Conklin pens that he endorsed them.)

What It Looks Like

The final question I have been asking myself win regard to AI and writing is: what does it look like? That is, if, and when the technology reaches a point where it is considered to be mature enough to become just another tool for writers and artists?

This is another question that I don't have an answer for, and I don't have any predictions on it. I only have some hopes for what will come. What hopes do I have?

My hope is that the technology will not remain under the direction of large corporations. I would rather see the technology becoming something that individuals chose implement for themselves, and have the ability to customize what it does for them, and how they interact with it.

This basically means local LLM implementations. We have machines that are capable of running small local LLM's right now. (I'm typing this on an AMD Ryzen AI MAX+ system right now). I think there are ways to allow individuals to implement and customize this tool in the same manner that many of us chose to install and customize our Linux systems. I think this could also open the door(s) to ways of correcting the wrongs of the current AI industry in terms of their use of other people's property. But that's a whole other thought process that I have been going through, which belongs in a different article.

Conclusion

The future of AI as it stands is uncertain. There are people that are both bullish and bearish on the state of the industry from a business standpoint. I tend to align myself more with the bears. I believe that the financing is a shame, and there will (hopefully) be either some kind of market correction, or day of reckoning where these companies are concerned.

While the things that many people think are tells really aren't, that doesn't mean it isn't possible to identify AI generated writing more accurately given the correct set of linguistic analysis tools. And at this point we should be identifying these works as the technology is really not at a level where it should be so broadly accepted.

When I look at a company like Oxide Computers I am encouraged that they are taking an approach that addresses many of the subtleties of the questions surrounding AI. However, what I am not encouraged by is that the missed the singularly most critical point: how does one quantify the usefulness of this technology? My personal experience showed me that it could quite easily and substantially get in my way, turning a thirty-minute task into two hours of work. That's not a productivity boon.

But, I am also wondering if we are looking at this form the wrong perspective. Throughout history there have been technologies that have substantially impacted our ability to write and create. Has the impact of those technologies been positive or negative? That's a question with an unknown answer, and one that should be researched more deeply in order to understand what we should expect as the impact of AI.

I know there have been artists and creators that have resisted the technologies that I brought up in this article. I mentioned that one author couldn't stand a self-filling fountain pen (Lovecraft), while another (Twain) loved it so much he endorsed the company. There were authors that resisted using the typewriter when it became a reasonably commonplace and affordable tool for writing, despite all of its benefits.

Where does AI fit in for writers? I don't know, but I do have some hopes for it. The primary hope is that it is a technology that does not remain in the hands of large corporations. I hope that it instead becomes a personal technology that the individual can implement for themselves, and customize it to integrate it into their life.

I am spending time with my parents and there is one word that describes this whole trip: healing.

They bought us a mirror for our housewarming gift. They contributed something exotic and exquisite to our home. Coupled with that, we had the most amazing customer service experience at Sofa Land. My mom did a happy dance in the store when she got the $500 mirror on sale for $240.

Coupled with that, Dad is helping Roy learn how to mount the mirror on the wall.

Our relationship is changing.

De Zwaar Beveiligde Geheiligde 3 Eenheid treedt weer wetmatig op

De zondag dienst, herhaling maakt mogelijkerwijs herhaling Sky Show Time is ook maar gebakken luchtverplaatsing

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Als het op je toe komt met gebruik van honderdduizend beschermde beelden dan zit er altijd een regi(e)ss(z)eur achter die deze over stroom op stroom in stukjes zit te verdelen een mootje nu, een partje gisteren en een hele hoop deeltjes voor morgen dit hard gesneden beeld moet voor nog veel meer van dergelijke puzzelstukjes zorgen voor tussen handel en onder dat tussendoortje wellen dan alweer vergelijkbare media zendingen op en deze daadwerkelijke eindeloze schijnvertoning zet telkens weer je wereldbeeld op de kop ze dissen iets op dat op zijn best, best aardig op iets waardevols lijkt maar het is echter enkel onderdeel van opgevoerd economisch werk beleid de kleine club beeld en geluid opzichters sturen voortdurend miljarden soorten rumoer makende berichten naar ogen en oren zodat de niks uitzendende werkelijkheid het voor ons gebouwde kunstmatig leven zo min mogelijk zal verstoren Weer een opening vertonen zodat de zittende kijker ondanks beter voelen er door gaat kijken en dus weer een grote hoge mast erbij waarvoor het restje echt andere moet uitwijken zie daar het vuurwerk in het uurwerk, hoor de lijn verbinding zoemen, kijk, de malloten en hun lulijzeren wil en blijf tijdens dit bijna almachtig dagelijks opgetrommeld gedonder over het gebliksem doodstil liggen huiveren voor morgens deel rondom het werelds pillen paleis beplakt met glanspoedercoating stop alle energie iedere dag met levenslust en al in een zwaar metalen zeer giftige verkeersring eet al ontwikkelend en immer bijlerend je ingewikkelde in afval omwikkelde cultuur voer tijdens weer een seizoens getrouwe uitzending over een nooit daadwerkelijk iets veranderende kunsttour toerisme beweging motivatie video en promotie flyers vliegen rondom de altijd standby stereoset en alles veranderen in niets meer en wel minder dan volkomen gestoorde binnenpret samen zijn we opgenomen in een onverstoorbare alles beperkende afgesloten heilig verklaarde studio het leven omgezet tot een door waanzin aangedreven spectaculair ogende media show oeverloos geklets om geld al duwend te laten rollen en wapens te laten kletteren als inzet van vroeg tot laat samengepakt in een huiveringwekkend groot opblaasbaar hunnebed Daar gaan we weer met de uitzenders mee in trans port tuigjes vluchtend over het economisch tapijt van teer beton, gebroken rotsen, pvc wortelkleed, verscheepte zand kust en luchtgebakken klei op weg naar vrij en blij wikkel winkulland en via de los geld pin automaat poort deze bewerkte werkelijkheid verlaten maar in feite zitten we zondermeer levenslang opgesloten in via manipulatie begrensde monetaire mono polie staten Thuis is op rekening, liggen in het bed van de bank op het matras van zelfverrijkende wetenschap, koffie- en eettafels een substituut voor de preekstoel, en dan de media altaren voor de alle leven vernietigende boodschap het offer er voor zijn wij, vrijwillig vullen we dit goede sier verschijnsel in, houden deze herrie en vertier makende parasiet in blijvende nood toestand blijven volhouden dat we echt leven in dit met allerlei regels en redevoeringen geproduceerd land lusteloze clowns, wispelturige vrekken, malende missie dienaars en standvastige malloten worden al vertellend met klank, kleur en timbre dankzij ferme letter houdgreep omgezet in magistrale supermens exploten De vervolg helden die een manhaftig afgezet stuk grond tot bestaand land moeten maken, bijna iets van echt niets veroorzaken daar zijn ze weer de mannen van weleer in verse versies optredend in het Hedendaags Theater allemaal stukjes her en her en herintredend voor duizenden herhalingen voor ons vrijwillig verblijf in gevangenschap nu maar vooral voor de kleintjes later tot in de eeuwigheid zichzelf als rotsen in kringetjes rollen naar een niet werkelijk bestaand hoger niveau toch verbaasd dat ze ondanks de perfect uitgevoerde rol patronen telkens uitkomen op hetzelfde podium van dezelfde show

---

Later daalt meer van gisteren en eer gisteren op u stand alone moederbord neer de vlijtig samenscholende netwerken gaan iedere uitkomst van alle inspanningen beperken tot u murw gebeukt door die aanhoudende stroom aan berichten voor de vervalste meerderheid van de zeer beperkte minderheid zal zwichten en ook u woede zich op hun vijanden zal richten

welkom bij die club van aangesmeerde nederlagen het is mij een eer om u zo vaak als ik kan te belagen te strikken in mijn duizenden hinderlagen tot u eindelijk weer bij zinnen komt en stopt met versies van vragen voor aanvragen om te ondervragen voor meer van die zinloze maatschappelijke bijdragen voor een maatschappij die uit niks anders bestaat dan textuur lagen

Stay entertained thanks to our Weekly Tracker giving you next week's Anticipated Movies & Shows, Most Watched & Returning Favorites, and Shows Changes & Popular Trailers.

Anticipated Movies

• Enola Holmes 3
• ☆ Minions & Monsters
• Magellan
• Young Washington

Anticipated Shows

• ☆ Elle
• BLACK TORCH

Returing Favorites

• X-Men '97 — Season 2
• Survival of the Thickest — Season 3
• ☆ Silo — Season 3
• Skeleton Knight in Another World — Season 2
• Mushoku Tensei: Jobless Reincarnation — Season 3
• Grand Blue — Season 3

Trending Shows Status Changes

• The Bear — Returning Series → Ended
• Dr. Stone — Returning Series → Ended

Most Watched Movies this Week

• = Michael
• new Voicemails for Isabelle
• new The Sheep Detectives
• new Masters of the Universe
• -3 Mortal Kombat II
• = Pressure
• -3 Project Hail Mary
• new Citizen Vigilante
• new The Mandalorian and Grogu
• new Tuner

Most Watched Shows this Week

• new House of the Dragon
• -1 FROM
• = Rick and Morty
• = Dutton Ranch
• -3 Widow's Bay
• new I Will Find You
• new The Bear
• -1 Cape Fear
• -4 Clarkson's Farm
• new The Agency

Popular Trailers

• In Cinemas Now — Supergirl
• Only in cinemas July 8 — Evil Dead Burn
• A new era of Spider-Man dawns — Spider-Man: Brand New Day
• the ocean always has Moana's back — Moana
• Jackass: Best and Last is 95% on the tomatometer! get tix to see the best jackass yet in theatres now! — Jackass: Best and Last
• Final Trailer [Subtitled] — Detective Conan: Fallen Angel of the Highway
• If chaos was a movie... well... — Minions & Monsters
• Thank you to the fans for making Toy Story 5 the NO.1 film in the world! — Toy Story 5
• Season 15 Official Trailer — King of the Hill
• Get It On Digital Today! — Tuner

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Hi, I’m Kevin 👋. Product Manager at Trakt and creator of Rippple. If you’d like to support what I'm building, you can download Rippple for Trakt, explore the open source project, or go Trakt VIP.

---

I think back to the ages I've reached. 30 didn't bother me much. 40 didn't either. Apparently those bother some people. When I got to 45 it kind of bothered me. I was like, wtf, I'm 45. How did this happen? Where did all those years go?

Now near 55. I will qualify for some senior discounts. Only 10 years from retirement age. Not that I will be retiring likely, but retirement age I will be. I wouldn't say that I feel one way or another about it. No feeling as though it snuck up on me like 45 did. How I perceive the passage of time is much different. Like when I was 20 I was not thinking, wtf I'm almost 30. Now at 55 though I am thinking, wtf I'm almost 65. Events that happened 10 years ago can seem so recent, and then I can’t help thinking, in that same amount of time I'll be 65.

At 55 I don't understand young adults. Today I think that means anyone under 30. Ten years from now that might mean anyone under 40. I don't know. They are like aliens from another planet. I am not keeping up with technology advancements. I'm an alien visiting, watching a strange species do weird shit that I don't understand.

Over the hump day of my life. If my life was a week I would be near Friday by now or something. If I'm lucky I'll see Saturday Sunday.

Or like my own doomsday clock approaching midnight. I haven't looked at that in awhile...

internet tells me we're at 85 seconds to midnight. Closest to midnight than it has ever been since they invented it. That's no surprise. Most of the ones in power are a threat to humanity, and are allowing the planet to become uninhabitable. I think some are doing the right things, but it sadly seems too few too late. Going by what the news says, the race is still close. Common sense is still being crushed like a bug under the heel of greed, power and money. It shouldn't be. We should have been in crisis mode a long time ago, and things should have changed.

Our Father Who art in Heaven Hallowed be Thy name Thy Kingdom come Thy will be done on Earth as it is in Heaven Give us this day our daily Bread And forgive us our trespasses As we forgive those who trespass against us And lead us not into temptation But deliver us from evil

Amen

Jesus is Lord! Come Lord Jesus!

Come Lord Jesus! Christ is Lord!

A Dedication To Privacy

And into the cinders we knew the amount As was the justice of law And across our journey to the failhold People were done with words Intecedent unite Such as the rod of our understanding And infotainment became justice And that were the true succeed As such for the justice of Man It was simple and it plained the system For all regal and manners high It was the Southernmost point and accepted war But Crosses, then Carry, as we could But not like the brave had- The Son of God, and knowing why.

Ukraine Path

I was fitted for wonder And grew a giant tree To aging assault A final eviction Thoughts for the unaccord- in the sympathy of day And pestilence We were worried at last That things will be final core And striking the salute Our prayer ambulance

And in this country, the gentry Small arms for the government A tour of the Lord For the singers that be And brominated time Bees to our cast And solely then Did we strike with reason

And pain disappeared For the other mistakes of high fever But Bertolli was new And masses of St. Catherine Made verse to the public

And this day off in reason here Fighting advanced of the forged And to solely forget That we are- still,- The Mother of Time

And in this Eucharist Is the body of Jesus And we came unafraid But to be together For these constant plans And days and things- of a fresh balloon And in Singh rapport We are fighting till ten Keeping merry To solve away our public cure And in this instance to Aberdeen We sat up with the Sun- to make a stand and decision That we were going to Rome,- Federal or not To shake this war- into a barrel.

King William

And so with great eye The living truth and cousin Upon which we return To the need of the early And ready for a crown In good call to the Army And liking to kin The semblance of peace For which to rain and seen The likeness of a war And would forswear The difficult in height For Heaven and relief That nights of wonder Do fit His Majesty Eden at hidden wonder And to the call- Boleyn The final wisdom night And here in Winter,- sudden belief of passerby And often on the call That Nature hides in ruin For this we told Was calling from above At prayer and to the altar Simply of sight And giving breath to worship That nights portend and bless A river of prayer And making scene to call That mystery did renew Timing fold and day of abolition To all in force as him in gold This day in force For the early call in tribe For Opposites to know The sight of fury And able few- God, raise our King- to unaccuse and unadore- Refrains of predilection And mercy hope In truth to this in question The nights remain And launching for our cause That we be well For chances in esteem Toward our mend And blessing those that be Of Hope in this assistance And rising in esteem To cue the Wonder Of God and Man And mercy has its day To common fold in hand The likeness near God Save The King!

Earthen

We wrecked the shallow to our knees And ended ends to Rutherford Our very dew In Stratham tide to glory The sight of he- Our witness one and rod in scything fear Little packets by the coast And birds for making end Masks of pre-term tension Recorded lies and chopper here Made out West deliver In conquer then Up to speed, the works of fateless guest And in arrive, a man To make up for our throes A tiny nest for dawn People hand to work, and then Tiny bits of war to her Our sister-cousin Days within my country And growing here,- our feast to then The worker of his rut Deliverance of Peter Of soap and brass deliver The dust of many few And three and six bits environmental Surveillance was enough but what a shame Broken hearts on repeat, and faithful to a sky For seas and then- Broken hands to property Fortunes made and gone To earthen men Ports in prose in memory The slightest news was every war And people kept on washing The ailient news When will live again our spouse Today made new But only then because A history of forever- In faithful lesson, rain But in toward the cloth of death This worry that a day for mourning her Aching dawn With supplitude at bay Pails and bowls and suffer Upon this rock pretend That verdant white is new But shoals take sea And offered to our lake- The one in tragedy at very twelve Sins of unredemption and the poorest Victory was our star And gone to place The Earth will set its sun And random spots of tar and there Fritterances, convoy Paid to be complete And every line for single draw We knew at well that this would be our over And made of cleft The empty, verdant last Who called a few in time Our Earthen year- witness to the death and hating June And spiralled knees We fought and delivered cancer This year of in defeat and what we were And glory then the nights attached In every failed war, a light And gobs of Maine deliver The promise of the dead to offer more And then we join But packs of May to warehouse And man gladhanded washing And the break for new who saw Every poet light upon this Earth and waking brow Verdance of the year to Sunday pall The Earth return in right To call us back in line That if we were salt And eating rain And soaking everything Apostles be our mode The history of love and pipeline war The Essenes then A victory was today and say it is The lines of black may follow- Our time-delivered hearts And yesterday for grab, this film is off to wear and tragic Earth The night will be all rain and tending war Victory to this vast asleep, acceptance And to day of unapostle but to tributary Mistakes in even hidden To bless our war-soaked cove And living empty hearts to us askew This was our war And our asking And our regret In places known.

En godnattsaga om en liten Räv.

Det var en gång en liten räv som hette Mårten. Han bodde tillsammans med sin pappa i en varm och rymlig lya under rötterna på den äldsta eken i hela skogen.

Eken var så gammal att ingen riktigt visste när den hade börjat växa. Dess stam var tjock och fårad, och grenarna sträckte sig över gläntan som skyddande armar. På våren slog små gröna blad ut på grenarna. På sommaren gav kronan sval skugga. På hösten regnade gyllene löv över marken, och på vintern vilade snön mjukt på de nakna grenarna.

Under eken hade Mårten och hans pappa gjort det hemtrevligt. Golvet var täckt av torr mossa. I ett hörn låg en hög med mjuka fjädrar som de hade hittat i skogen. På en liten hylla av trädrötter förvarade pappa Räv vackra stenar, borttappade nötter och andra märkvärdiga saker som Mårten brukade hitta under sina utflykter.

Där fanns en blå fjäder från en skata, ett snäckskal som någon hade burit hela vägen från havet och en rund sten som glittrade när månskenet föll på den.

Men det bästa i hela lyan var ändå sovplatsen längst in. Där kunde Mårten krypa tätt intill sin pappa och känna värmen från hans mjuka päls.

Varje kväll hade de samma rutiner.

Först borstade pappa Räv bort löv och barr ur Mårten päls. Sedan drack de några klunkar kallt vatten ur en liten skål av bark. Därefter brukade Mårten få välja en godnattsaga.

Ibland berättade pappa om flygande rävar som seglade över molnen. Ibland berättade han om ett hemligt rike under sjön, där fiskarna bar kronor av näckrosor. Ibland berättade han historier om när han själv var liten och trodde att månen var en stor ost som någon hade hängt upp på himlen.

Men en kväll hjälpte inga berättelser.

Mårten låg under sin filt av mjuka löv och vred sig från den ena sidan till den andra. Han lade svansen över nosen. Sedan lade han svansen under hakan. Han rullade ihop sig till en liten boll, men öppnade snart ögonen igen.

Pappa Räv låg bredvid och låtsades först sova. Han visste att Mårten ibland behövde lite tid för att komma till ro.

Men efter en stund hörde han en liten suck.

Sedan ännu en.

Till sist satte sig Mårten upp.

”Pappa?” viskade han.

”Ja, min lilla räv?”

”Sover du?”

Pappa Räv öppnade ett öga.

”Inte längre.”

Mårten tittade mot ingången till lyan. Utanför hade kvällshimlen blivit mörkblå. De sista solstrålarna hade försvunnit bakom bergen, och mellan trädstammarna låg skuggorna långa och djupa.

”Jag kan inte somna”, sa Mårten.

”Är det något som oroar dig?”

Mårten nickade.

”Skogen låter annorlunda på natten.”

Pappa Räv satte sig upp och lade svansen om honom.

”Hur låter den?”

Mårten spetsade öronen.

Utanför prasslade något bland löven.

”Där!” sa han. ”Hörde du?”

”Jag hörde.”

”Tänk om det är något stort?”

Pappa Räv lyssnade noga. Prasslet kom närmare. Det stannade precis utanför lyan.

Mårten höll andan.

Sedan dök en liten brun nos fram i öppningen. Bakom nosen kom ett runt huvud och två nyfikna ögon.

Det var igelkotten Iris.

På ryggen bar hon tre gula löv och en liten kvist.

”God kväll”, sa Iris. ”Jag hoppas att jag inte stör. Jag letar bara efter ett bra löv att ha som kudde.”

Mårten pustade ut.

”Det var du som prasslade.”

”Jag prasslar nästan alltid”, sa Iris. ”Det är svårt att vara tyst när löven fastnar på taggarna.”

Pappa Räv hjälpte henne att välja ett stort, torrt lönnlöv.

”Det här borde bli en utmärkt kudde”, sa han.

Iris tackade och vandrade vidare mot sin lilla håla under en buske.

Mårten lade sig ner igen.

”Det var bara Iris”, sa han.

”Ja”, svarade pappa. ”På dagen ser vi vem som gör ljuden. På natten hör vi ljuden först och får tänka efter.”

Mårten låg tyst en stund.

Då hördes ett djupt hoande från skogen.

”Hooo. Hooo.”

Mårten satte sig genast upp igen.

”Vad var det?”

”Det låter som ugglan Uno”, sa pappa.

”Men tänk om det inte är Uno?”

”Då kan vi gå ut och ta reda på det.”

Mårten spärrade upp ögonen.

”Gå ut? Nu?”

Pappa nickade.

”Ibland blir mörkret mindre skrämmande när man tittar närmare på det.”

Mårten var inte helt säker på att detta stämde. Mörkret såg väldigt stort ut från lyan. Men han litade på sin pappa.

Pappa Räv tog fram deras lilla lykta. Den var gjord av ett tomt nötskal, och inuti lyste tre vänliga eldflugor. Eldflugorna hette Glim, Gnist och Greta. De sov på dagarna och hjälpte gärna till som lykta om nätterna.

”Är ni vakna?” frågade pappa Räv.

Tre små ljus tändes inuti nötskalet.

”Vi är vakna”, pep Greta.

”Vart ska vi?” frågade Glim.

”På en liten nattpromenad”, sa pappa.

Gnist blinkade ivrigt.

”Nattpromenader är de bästa promenaderna.”

Mårten kröp ut ur lyan efter sin pappa.

Luften var kyligare än den varit på dagen. Gräset kittlade hans tassar, och små droppar av dagg glittrade i lyktans sken. Ovanför dem syntes de första stjärnorna.

Skogen var verkligen annorlunda på natten.

Men den var inte tom.

En nattfjäril fladdrade förbi dem som ett blekt löv. En snigel gled långsamt över en sten. Långt bort hoppade en hare genom ormbunkarna.

”Hooo”, hördes det igen.

Mårten gick lite närmare sin pappa.

”Ljudet kommer från den stora granen”, sa pappa.

De följde stigen mellan blåbärsriset. Ju längre de gick, desto mer hörde Mårten.

Bäcken porlade över stenarna.

Vinden susade genom trädtopparna.

En gren knarrade långsamt.

Små tassar sprang genom löven.

Allt lät starkare på natten, men när Mårten tittade ordentligt såg han att varje ljud hade en förklaring.

Vid den stora granen satt ugglan Uno på en gren. Hans runda ögon glimmade i mörkret.

”God kväll”, sa Uno.

”God kväll”, svarade pappa Räv.

”Var det du som hoade?” frågade Mårten.

Uno blinkade långsamt.

”Ja. Jag ropar för att höra om någon annan uggla är vaken.”

”Får du något svar?”

Alla lyssnade.

Från andra sidan skogen hördes ett svagt hoande.

”Hooo.”

Uno såg nöjd ut.

”Där är min syster Ulla. Nu vet jag att hon har det bra.”

Mårten tittade bort mot den mörka skogen.

”Så hoandet betyder inte att något farligt kommer?”

”Nej”, sa Uno. ”Det betyder oftast bara att en uggla har något att säga.”

Mårten tänkte på det. Det var svårt att vara rädd för ett ljud när man visste att det egentligen betydde: Är du vaken? Ja, jag är här.

De önskade Uno en god natt och fortsatte genom skogen.

Efter en stund kom de till bäcken. Månen hade stigit högre och speglade sig i vattnet. Men bäcken lät mycket högre än vanligt.

Vattnet kluckade, porlade och plaskade.

”Bäcken låter som om den pratar”, sa Mårten.

”Det gör den kanske”, svarade pappa.

De satte sig på en flat sten.

”Vad säger den?”

Pappa Räv lutade huvudet åt sidan.

”Jag tror att den sjunger godnattvisor för stenarna.”

Mårten lyssnade.

Vattnet rann över en rund sten med ett mjukt porlande. Sedan hoppade det ner från en liten kant och landade med ett försiktigt plask.

Porl, porl, plask.

Porl, porl, plask.

Det lät nästan som en sång.

”Kan stenar sova?” frågade Mårten.

”De ligger åtminstone väldigt stilla”, sa pappa.

Mårten fnissade.

De satt kvar en stund och lyssnade på bäckens godnattvisor.

Då såg Mårten något märkligt på andra sidan vattnet.

Ett litet blått ljus svävade mellan buskarna.

Sedan syntes ett till.

Och ett till.

”Pappa”, viskade Mårten. ”Vad är det där?”

Pappa Räv kisade.

”Det ser ut som fler eldflugor.”

Men Glim, Gnist och Greta började blinka oroligt inuti lyktan.

”De där känner vi inte”, sa Greta.

De blå ljusen rörde sig djupare in bland träden. De svävade långsamt fram och tillbaka, nästan som om de ville att någon skulle följa efter.

Mårten kände både rädsla och nyfikenhet.

”Ska vi gå tillbaka hem?” frågade han.

Pappa Räv tittade på honom.

”Vad tycker du?”

Mårten funderade. Han ville tillbaka till den varma lyan. Samtidigt ville han veta vad de blå ljusen var.

”Vi kan gå lite närmare”, sa han. ”Men bara om du går först.”

”Det gör jag.”

De hittade en smal plats där bäcken var grund och hoppade över på några stenar. Sedan följde de de blå ljusen.

Ljusen förde dem till en del av skogen där träden stod tätare. Här växte höga ormbunkar och mjuk mossa. Luften doftade av jord och svamp.

Plötsligt försvann ljusen.

Mårten stannade.

”Vart tog de vägen?”

Då började marken framför dem lysa.

Där, i en ring under en gammal bok, växte små svampar med blåskimrande hattar.

”Det var svamparna”, sa Mårten.

”Deras sken syntes mellan grenarna när vinden rörde dem”, sa pappa.

Mårten gick försiktigt närmare.

Svamparna lyste så svagt att de nästan såg ut som små stjärnor som fallit ner på marken.

Mitt i svampringen låg en liten mus och sov.

Hon hade huvudet på en kastanj och svansen virad runt kroppen.

”Det är Mimmi”, viskade Mårten.

Musen öppnade ena ögat.

”Hej”, mumlade hon sömnigt. ”Ni får gärna titta, men försök att inte stampa. Jag har precis hittat en perfekt sovplats.”

”Är du inte rädd för de lysande svamparna?” frågade Mårten.

Mimmi gäspade.

”Nej. De fungerar som nattlampor.”

Sedan somnade hon om.

Mårten tittade länge på det blå skenet.

Mörkret runt svamparna kändes inte längre lika tomt. Det var fullt av små saker som lyste.

De gick vidare.

Snart kom de till en glänta som Mårten aldrig hade sett förut. I mitten stod en liten damm. Vattnet var blankt och stilla, och runt dammen växte vita blommor som bara slog ut på natten.

På en sten satt grodan Göran och sjöng.

”Kvack, kvack, kvackeli-kvack.”

Runt honom satt flera små grodor i en halvcirkel.

”Vad gör ni?” frågade Mårten.

Göran bugade.

”Vi övar kvällskören.”

”Kvällskören?”

”Ja. De små grodorna ska lära sig skogens vaggvisor.”

De små grodorna tog ett djupt andetag.

”Kvack, kvack, kvack.”

Några sjöng för tidigt. En sjöng för sent. En mycket liten groda sjöng så högt att han föll baklänges ner i vattnet.

Plask!

Mårten började skratta.

Den lilla grodan kom upp igen med en näckros på huvudet.

”Det där var meningen”, sa han.

Göran harklade sig.

”Från början igen.”

Grodkören sjöng en långsam sång. Den handlade om månen, om vatten som vilade och om små grodyngel som sov tryggt bland vassen.

Sången var lite kvackig, men mycket vacker.

”Det där var en riktig vaggvisa”, sa Mårten när de sjungit klart.

”Tack”, sa Göran stolt. ”Vaggvisor behöver inte vara perfekta. De behöver bara få någon att känna sig trygg.”

Pappa Räv nickade.

”Det var klokt sagt.”

De tackade för sången och gick vidare.

Nu började Mårten känna sig trött. Hans tassar gick långsammare, och han gäspade så stort att öronen vek sig bakåt.

”Ska vi gå hem?” frågade pappa.

Mårten nickade.

Men just när de vände sig om hörde de ett svagt ljud från skogen.

Det lät nästan som gråt.

Mårten blev genast klarvaken.

”Hörde du?”

Pappa Räv nickade.

De följde ljudet till en tät buske. Där satt en liten harunge. Hon darrade och hade tårar i ögonen.

”Vad har hänt?” frågade pappa Räv mjukt.

Harungen snyftade.

”Jag heter Tova. Jag följde efter en nattfjäril och nu hittar jag inte hem.”

Mårten satte sig bredvid henne.

”Är ditt hem långt härifrån?”

”Vi bor vid den stora stenen som ser ut som ett sovande björnhuvud.”

Mårten hade sett stenen förut. Den låg nära hasselsnåret, ganska långt bort.

”Vi kan följa dig”, sa han.

Pappa Räv såg på Mårten.

”Orkar du gå så långt?”

Mårten tittade på Tova. Hon såg liten och ensam ut.

”Ja”, sa han. ”Jag kan vara trött senare.”

Så började de vandringen mot hasselsnåret.

Tova gick mellan Mårten och pappa Räv. Glim, Gnist och Greta lyste vägen. För att Tova inte skulle vara rädd berättade Mårten allt han hade lärt sig under natten.

Han berättade att prasslet i löven kunde vara Iris som letade efter en kudde.

Han berättade att ugglans hoande betydde att Uno pratade med sin syster.

Han berättade att bäcken sjöng godnattvisor för stenarna.

Han berättade om de lysande svamparna, om Mimmi som sov i svampringen och om grodorna som övade vaggvisor vid dammen.

Tova slutade darra.

”Natten verkar inte så farlig när du berättar om den”, sa hon.

Mårten blev lite förvånad. För bara en stund sedan hade han själv varit rädd.

”Natten är mest saker som gör sådant de brukar göra”, sa han. ”Fast man kan inte alltid se dem direkt.”

De gick över en kulle och genom ett område med högt gräs. Månen följde dem ovanför träden.

När vinden blåste rörde sig gräset i långa vågor.

”Titta”, sa pappa Räv. ”Det ser nästan ut som ett silverhav.”

Mårten föreställde sig att de vandrade på botten av ett hav. Grässtråna blev sjögräs. Nattfjärilarna blev fiskar. Månen blev ett stort pärlemorskal.

”Pappa”, sa Mårten, ”tror du att månen följer efter oss?”

”Det kan kännas så.”

”Varför gör den det?”

Pappa Räv tänkte efter.

”Kanske vill den se till att vi hittar hem.”

Tova tittade upp.

”Då följer den kanske alla som är ute på natten.”

”Det tror jag”, sa Mårten.

Till sist nådde de den stora stenen. Den såg verkligen ut som ett sovande björnhuvud. På andra sidan stenen satt två harar och väntade.

När de såg Tova rusade de fram.

”Där är du!” ropade hennes mamma.

Tova kastade sig i hennes famn.

”Jag följde en nattfjäril”, erkände hon. ”Sedan gick jag vilse. Men Mårten och hans pappa hjälpte mig.”

Hararna tackade dem många gånger.

Tovas pappa gav Mårten en liten påse med söta skogsbär.

”Till frukost”, sa han.

Mårten gäspade igen.

”Tack.”

Nu började vägen hem.

Den kändes mycket kortare, trots att Mårten var trött. Han visste var ljuden kom ifrån. Han kände igen stigarna. Och när en gren knarrade ovanför honom tittade han upp och såg att det bara var vinden som gungade den fram och tillbaka.

När de passerade dammen hade grodorna slutat sjunga. De små grodorna sov på näckrosbladen.

När de gick förbi de lysande svamparna sov Mimmi fortfarande med huvudet på kastanjen.

Vid bäcken fortsatte vattnet att porla sin sång.

Uno satt kvar i granen, men nu hade han fått sällskap av sin syster Ulla.

Iris låg hoprullad under busken med lönnlövet under huvudet.

Hela skogen vilade.

När Mårten och pappa Räv kom tillbaka till den gamla eken hade månen klättrat högt upp på himlen.

De kröp in i lyan.

Pappa Räv ställde tillbaka lyktan på hyllan.

”Tack för hjälpen”, sa han till eldflugorna.

”Tack för promenaden”, svarade Greta.

Glim, Gnist och Greta släckte sina ljus och somnade i nötskalet.

Mårten kröp ner på sovplatsen. Pappa borstade bort några barr ur hans päls och lade lövfilten över honom.

”Var skogen annorlunda än du trodde?” frågade pappa.

Mårten nickade sömnigt.

”Jag trodde att mörkret gömde farliga saker.”

”Och vad gömde det?”

Mårten räknade upp dem.

”Iris och hennes lövkudde. Uno och Ulla. Bäcken. De blå svamparna. Mimmi. Grodornas kör. Och Tova.”

”Det var ganska mycket.”

”Ja.”

Mårten låg tyst en stund.

”Pappa?”

”Ja?”

”Var du aldrig rädd när du var liten?”

Pappa Räv log.

”Jo, många gånger.”

”För mörkret också?”

”Särskilt för mörkret.”

Mårten öppnade ögonen.

”Men du verkar aldrig rädd nu.”

Pappa lade sig bredvid honom.

”Att vara modig betyder inte att man aldrig är rädd. Det betyder att man kan ta ett litet steg även när man är rädd. Ibland tar man steget själv. Ibland håller man någon i tassen.”

Mårten lade sin tass på pappas.

”Som i kväll?”

”Precis som i kväll.”

Utanför lyan blåste vinden genom ekens grenar. Löven rasslade mjukt, nästan som tusen små viskningar.

”Nu sjunger trädet också”, mumlade Mårten.

”Vad tror du att det sjunger?”

Mårten lyssnade.

”En sång om en liten räv som gick ut i mörkret.”

”Och vad hände med honom?”

”Han upptäckte att natten inte var tom.”

”Vad var den full av?”

Mårten gäspade.

”Vänner. Sånger. Små ljus. Och en pappa som följde med.”

Pappa Räv drog sin svans över Mårten som en varm filt.

”Det låter som en bra sång.”

”Kan du sjunga den?”

Pappa Räv hade inte den vackraste sångrösten i skogen. Den var varken klar som en fågels eller djup som en grodas. Men Mårten tyckte att det var den tryggaste rösten som fanns.

Pappa började sjunga mycket tyst:

”Sov nu, lilla tass,

natten vandrar varsamt.

Månen lyser över stig,

och jag stannar här hos dig.

Bäcken sjunger, träden ler,

stjärnor tänds och blir allt fler.

Blunda tryggt och vila så,

hemmet väntar där vi två.”

Mårten ögon blev tyngre.

”En vers till”, mumlade han.

Pappa fortsatte:

”Om en dröm tar dig långt bort,

över äng och över port,

följer jag ditt spår ändå,

vart än dina tassar gå.

Genom moln och månens sken,

över berg och under gren,

följer jag dig hela vägen,

hem till lyan under eken.”

Mårten andning blev långsam och jämn.

Men precis innan han somnade frågade han:

”Pappa?”

”Ja, min lilla räv?”

”Tänk om jag drömmer att jag går ända till månen?”

”Då följer jag efter.”

”Tänk om jag går vilse bland stjärnorna?”

”Då frågar vi månen om vägen.”

”Tänk om månen inte vet?”

”Då lyssnar vi efter bäckens godnattvisor.”

Mårten log med slutna ögon.

”Och grodornas vaggvisor?”

”Dem också.”

”Och om vi fortfarande inte hittar hem?”

Pappa Räv nosade honom mjukt på pannan.

”Då bygger vi en liten lya bland stjärnorna och väntar tills morgonen visar vägen.”

Mårten tass slappnade av i hans.

Snart sov den lilla räven djupt.

I drömmen vandrade han genom en skog där alla stjärnor hade fallit ner och lagt sig i mossan. Varje stjärna lyste som en liten lykta.

Han mötte Iris, som bar en krona av gula löv.

Han mötte Uno och Ulla, som flög över träden och ropade vänliga hälsningar till alla som var vakna.

Han såg Mimmi segla över dammen i ett nötskal.

Han hörde grodorna sjunga så vackert att näckrosorna började dansa.

Sedan kom Tova skuttande längs stigen.

”Månen har tappat bort sig”, sa hon.

Mårten tittade upp.

Himlen var mörk och tom.

”Då måste vi hitta den”, sa han.

De följde ett silverfärgat spår genom skogen. Det ledde över bäcken, förbi svampringen och uppför det högsta berget.

Där, bakom en stor sten, satt månen.

Den var mycket mindre på nära håll. Ungefär lika stor som en rund pumpa.

”Varför gömmer du dig?” frågade Mårten.

”Jag tror att jag har glömt hur man lyser”, sa månen sorgset.

Mårten satte sig bredvid den.

”Kanske behöver du höra en sång.”

Alla djuren samlades runt månen.

Bäcken sjöng sina godnattvisor.

Grodorna sjöng sina vaggvisor.

Ugglorna hoade mjukt.

Vinden susade genom träden.

Men månen började fortfarande inte lysa.

Då hördes steg bakom Mårten.

Det var pappa Räv.

Han satte sig på andra sidan månen och började sjunga samma sång som i lyan.

”Sov nu, lilla tass,

natten vandrar varsamt.”

Sakta började månen glöda.

Först som en eldfluga.

Sedan som de blå svamparna.

Sedan starkare och starkare, tills hela berget badade i silverljus.

”Jag kom ihåg!” ropade månen.

Den steg upp på himlen igen och lyste över hela skogen.

Alla jublade.

Mårten vände sig mot sin pappa.

”Hur visste du vilken sång månen behövde?”

Pappa log.

”Alla behöver en sång som påminner dem om att de inte är ensamma.”

Sedan lyfte vinden Mårten försiktigt från marken. Den bar honom över träden, över bäcken och tillbaka mot den gamla eken.

När morgonen kom vaknade Mårten i lyan.

En smal solstråle letade sig in genom öppningen. Fåglarna sjöng, och utanför glittrade daggen i gräset.

Pappa Räv låg bredvid honom och sov fortfarande.

Mårten låg alldeles stilla en stund.

Sedan kröp han närmare och lade sin lilla svans över pappas tass.

Pappa öppnade ena ögat.

”God morgon.”

”God morgon”, sa Mårten.

”Sov du gott?”

Mårten nickade.

”Jag drömde att månen hade glömt hur man lyste.”

”Det låter besvärligt.”

”Men vi hjälpte den.”

”Vad bra.”

Mårten tittade mot ingången, där morgonsolen lyste varmt.

Skogen såg inte alls likadan ut som den hade gjort under natten. Nu kunde han tydligt se stigarna, träden och buskarna.

Men han visste att den mörka skogen fortfarande fanns där, gömd under dagsljuset.

Och han visste vad som väntade när kvällen kom.

Iris skulle prassla bland löven.

Uno och Ulla skulle ropa till varandra.

Mimmi skulle sova bland de lysande svamparna.

Grodorna skulle öva sina sånger.

Bäcken skulle sjunga för stenarna.

Och hemma under eken skulle pappa Räv lägga sin svans över Mårten och berätta en saga.

Mårten var fortfarande inte säker på att han aldrig mer skulle bli rädd för mörkret.

Men det gjorde inget.

För nu visste han att rädsla kunde bli mindre om man lyssnade noga, tittade närmare och höll någon man älskade i tassen.

Och framför allt visste han att hur långt bort han än vandrade, genom mörka skogar, över höga berg eller ända upp bland stjärnorna, skulle hans pappa alltid hjälpa honom att hitta hem.

Today I went to a friend‘s birthday party, and I was talking about how I wanted to go to Six Flags waterpark. One of the girls there was constantly shitting on it and saying how there’s no point driving that far for it, and I was just kind of saying I enjoy it. I was asking A if she was interested, and she was saying that she was. The other girl started talking about how she wanted to go to a different one, and then said that it would be fun to go as a girls thing. It just directly feels like such a slap in the face to say that because it excludes me. It feels like intentionally trying to set up a situation or social dynamic where it is implied that I am not allowed. That shit hurts.