Once there was a 13 year old boy who wrote poetry. He started to make up his mind of what he liked and what not. He wanted to be part of everything. He had friends, but just a handful, loyal guys from his neighbourhood, and others from further away. He was an altar boy, assisting the local priest in his mystical searches for truth. He rode his bike daily to school, summer or winter. He had fought a whole year with his parents to be permitted to do it. They couldn’t stop him. He bought an electronics kit in a hardware store and experimented on it. He crafted transmitters and receivers, but in school did maths and Latin. An appendicitis brought him to hospital, and he got far behind in Latin and stopped following this subject. But he was unhappy, because of all the expectations people put on him. He could do much better, they said. And what would become of him if he didn’t invest in his life. He had no idea what they were talking about. So he spent a lot of time in his bed- and study room, tinkering with soldering irons and nitric acid. He found out what the verb ‘to act upon’ meant, by trial and error. Like hydrochloric acid acts upon fingers. He wrote his first computer program that year. Just 45 characters. He now converted wavelengths into frequencies with one button. And a little later he calculated the times of sunrise and sunset by this strange programmable calculator he regularly stole from his sister’s room. She always got furious when he trespassed that door. Especially when he did it when she was not around. What did she expect, that was the only time when he could. He didn’t understand his sister either. She was as mad as his parents. And he thought all girls and women must be like her, and he got curiously frightened from them.