Lord Henry OK'd it, once again.

Perhaps DIKT:APRIL was doomed to fail from the very start. Instead of sitting alone typing nonsensical words in sheer desperation, we decided to come together last week and create life poetry in the form of sunshine, people's beer and boffer sword production. This collective dream state went on for some days and in the meantime, DIKT:APRIL vanished like volcanic ash in the wind. And we would all rejoice, put on our most picturesque outfits and start thinking about future beautiful failed projects to come.

The only artists I have ever known, who are personally delightful, are bad artists. Good artists exist simply in what they make, and consequently are perfectly uninteresting in what they are. A great poet, a really great poet, is the most unpoetical of all creatures. But inferior poets are absolutely fascinating. The worse their rhymes are, the more picturesque they look. The mere fact of having published a book of second-rate sonnets makes a man quite irresistible. He lives the poetry that he cannot write. The others write the poetry that they dare not realise.

Lord Henry, in “The Picture of Dorian Gray” by Oscar Wilde

Och hon log när hon synden tyglade

Hwilken som Herrans nampn lastar/Han skall Dödhen döö: Hele menigheeten skal stena honom. [- - -] Then som bannar sin Fadher eller Modher/han skal Dödhen döö : Hans Blodh ware öfwer honom/at han sin fadher eller modher bannat hawfer. [---] Then som Hoor bedrifwer medh någhon mans Hustru/Then skall dödhen döö/bådhe Horkarlen och Horkonan/therföre at han medh sin nästas Hustru Hoor bedrifwit hafwer. (ur Ödman 2007:145)

Jag vill bara säga att det ibland är trevligt att plugga pedagogik. Och att alla ni förbannade jävla horor därute ska passa er jävligt noga.

En dag kommer jag att vara mer eller mindre färdigutbildad. Och med utbildning kommer rättigheter. Och stort samhällsansvar.