There have always been tales around the campfire.

   Modern ways of storytelling are merely a bad substitute to that.


   While the "stories" of today are dominated by form without content, by commercial interests, conformity and censorship,


   only the Storyteller's own skill counted

   around the campfire.


   A group of people is gathering around the fire. The fire is the center of the world. Those who join in in the circle are visible in the flickering light. If one turns there is nothing but darkness. The nothingness surrounds this small pack of humans, this tribe of wanderers.

   The Storyteller sits down and start weaving his web. There are no formalities, no boundaries. He makes the darkness alive, filling it up with life and death. The blood is flowing and the boys and the girls have each other, and semen is flying. His words become alive in the fire flickering, in the suction from the all-embracing darkness. Fire and ice mix and mists of time and existence drift above a darkened Earth.


   There will ever be storytellers around the campfire.




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