Slowly, slowly.... This book is not a real book, it does not have a beginning, a middle and an end. It is not a novel. It is not just a story. It is rather a Hotch potch, a Mish mash, a soup full of my thoughts, my memories, my feelings and my ideas. I have always written. Poems, essays, short stories. From some three decades ago I have manuscripts, scraps and notes, the oldest of which were lost, discoloured and forgotten. But. Lost no more. Now found, transcribed and word-processed. But unchanged. To add to these, I have recently found again the joy of writing. Fresh ideas and new reflections. Inside this book are nearly a hundred pieces of writing: half from long ago and half from just-a-while ago. There may be some comparisons the reader can make in my changes of beliefs and perspective in 30 years. Maybe. I scatter words at you as I would scatter paint at a sheet of paper in the hope that I can make a picture. And that picture is me.

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