Deep inside my heart, I know I can't escape

-The lakes ought to be nice this time a year, said my mother. Up in the forrest shire where I come from, they have that peculiur smell of rotten leafs and a mirror surface is only ruptured by the willows branches scraping along. We should take a car ride up there one of these days, she said.

-When we where kids, she said looking out the kitchen window gently tapping the teacup with the inside of her designer ring. We sewd feathers onto our trousers and burned our bra's. We fought against the inherited prejudice of our parents.

It was a lazy saturday, shrouded in rainfog clouds with an oblique beige light. The clock on the wall silently ticked and tacked. My little nephew was slumbring on the sofa.

-I was in the riots yesterday, I told her.

A vague smile spread across her face, still looking out the window.

-The city had a strange feeling mother, like the morning after someone got murdered. It was thick in the air. All the kids wrapped in rags and throwing cobblestones and build barricades. There was an overwhelming feeling of what ever it was that we were doing, it was the right thing to do. Like that man on the LP-cover launching a rock on a empty street, we to felt justified. We were fighting, not really sure for what, but fighting. Our futile attempts to make a difference were grand at time. And when the news images cool down over the decades we will still have the fires on our retinas. Like the berekley student riots of your time mother.

-You see son, she said while cleaning of the table. We never believed in anything special, oh yes there was peace and love in all of us. But that wasn't the most important thing you see. We wanted to be a part of something unique, something that would stain the pages of history with it's greatness. No one remembers the generations of bankers, ivy-legue students and average people. You might be viewed as a punk today, but your actions and the likes of you will always be there in the mind of people when they hear riots.

The sun was fading in the hiden horrizon and the wet asphalt perspirated heat.