At the dawn of time.

And come yuletide he would return once more to the almost mythological world of his childhood by visiting his ageing parents for Christmas. He would take long walks and visit his old school where he had learned the facts of life in the form of the other kids. And learned time and time again that no kid is an island. Unfortunately.

He would pass by the football grounds where he failed to become a great sportsman - grandpa had been one - And by doing so he forever forfeited his chances of becoming a part of the proto-fascist world of team sport camaraderie. Oh.

Briefly he would cast a look at the building where he went to his first disco and heard "it’s my party (and I cry if I want to)" - the 80´s version featuring Barbara Gaskin. A big sound. And artificial too.

Later he would stroll by some of the houses of his old class-mates and wonder if they were in there, perhaps also "home" for Christmas and maybe they would accidentally meet and talk about old times .He thought. But the streets were always empty and if anyone he had ever known were inside one of those houses they stayed inside.

After about an hour of his hopeless attempts at entering a time warp he would return to his parent’s house and slide into the drowsy comfort of a fully televised Christmas.

As he later fought hard to fall asleep in his old room he would ask himself if it was in fact the black spaces between the cold white stars of the December sky that had somehow sucked the force of life out of him a thousand years ago. At the dawn of time.

As always he returned to the city replenished and with new hope.