only write from the departure lounge of the small airport Bolungarvikense. Outside, the plane's engines I go up and cause a slight vibration in the glass steady. Behind me, a stretch of several kilometers of darkness and behind her distant and powerful illumination of the city that I'm leaving. I know so, prior knowledge, by distant memories, through repeated experience, not because my eyes now recreate that image. A burden of shame about bodily prevents me face the reality of this city even close. I know that in less than two hours, when the selected group that travels with me we are safe in heaven, streets, buildings, plazas, avenues, alleys and Bolungarvik people are going to be bombed. The
Bolungarvikenses know their next misfortune, but do not know the exact moment of tragedy coming, the moment that the hourglass has been completely transferred water from one container to another and the time is over. Dark
warplanes fly in the highest mountains, barely hear the thunder of their engines, and nothing will come their heavy bombs collide brutally against life, extinguishing it. Now I could describe the building Öskness, is proud of organic architecture, being built inside a hill wrapped in ivy, which has exploited the terrain to set your wavy shaped glass shades fit inside the color of the land. But before publication, that building will be memory, video or photo. The reality of tomorrow will be another. A macabre puzzle unmountable. The great avenue of Bjarni Fjalarson, famous for its four statues dedicated to the ages of man, will be transformed into mountains of debris that crushed hide the bodies of the same people who this afternoon have been walking in the shade of trees. The beams will exhibit their naked bodies and twisted wreckage and show room inside embarrassed having been stripped of their walls. Everyone will be morning yet the remains of this city. All will be away from so much death and here, those remaining will be apprentices of the customs and daily life of war. Impressionable and sensitive fully observed in shock, the agonies and deaths of relatives, friends, acquaintances, from anyone. Over time they adapted, but tonight will live the atrocious spectacle of the slaughter of man by man. No one has brought up to a night like this and they have very little time to delve into extreme misery. When children go to bed to perform the act more collected, peaceful and enjoyable of the day, repeated every night anywhere in the world. We want the immediate and future am happy for these creatures. Tonight at Bolungarvik parents are unknowingly, shrouding their children. Sounds
the last notice of my plane, dessert plane take off from this city for long. I dare to look at the distant light and back again to salvation, I wrapped an atavistic stench of blood and burned flesh.
