This is the research diary of Lisbeth Klastrup. Here I share some of my thoughts on life, universe, virtual worlds,interactive stories and internet oddities with you.

I'm a ph.d. scholar at the IT University at Copenhagen (ITU). I also host & work in a world called StoryMOO.
At this ITU homepage you can read more about my research project and miscellaneus activities. List of publications is here.

February 2001
March 2001
April 2001
May 2001
June 2001
July 2001
August 2001
September 2001
October 2001
This month

Fellow researchers
Jesper Juul
Troels Degn Johansson
Estrid Soerensen
Lars Konzack
Kenneth Hansen
Gabriel Hansen
Joergen Callesen
Soeren Pold

Jill Walker's blogg
Torill Mortensen's blogg
Ragnhild Tronstad
Hilde Corneliussen's blogg

Anna Gunder
Jenny Sunden
Mikael Jacobsson

Aki Jarvinen
Markku Eskelinen
Raine Koskimaa

-The World
Susana Pajares Tosca (SPA, UK)
Gonzalo Frasca's blogg (URU, US)
Elin Sjursen's blogg (NO, US)
Frank Schaap's Blogg (NL)
Adrian Miles' Vog (AUSTR.)

©Lisbeth Klastrup 2001

This page is
powered by Blogger. Isn't yours?

Rupert Brooke (1887-1915) - Choriambics -- I from Experiments (1908-1911)

Ah! not now, when desire burns, and the wind calls, and
the suns of spring
Light-foot dance in the woods, whisper of life, woo me
to wayfaring;
Ah! not now should you come, now when the road
beckons, and good friends call,
Where are songs to be sung, fights to be fought, yea! and
the best of all,
Love, on myriad lips fairer than yours, kisses you could
not give! . . .
Dearest, why should I mourn, whimper, and whine, I
that have yet to live?
Sorrow will I forget, tears for the best, love on the lips
of you,
Now, when dawn in the blood wakes, and the sun laughs
up the eastern blue;
I'll forget and be glad!
Only at length, dear, when the great day ends,
When love dies with the last light, and the last song has
been sung, and friends
All are perished, and gloom strides on the heaven: then,
as alone I lie,
'Mid Death's gathering winds, frightened and dumb, sick
for the past, may I
Feel you suddenly there, cool at my brow; then may I
hear the peace
Of your voice at the last, whispering love, calling,
ere all can cease
In the silence of death; then may I see dimly, and know,
a space,
Bending over me, last light in the dark, once, as of old,
your face.