It’s when we leave our theater in one big flock, it hits me what we are doing. It hits me that we are way too young to even respond to what is happening. We keep walking the twenty meters to the memorial. It’s like an amount of dusty haze of uncertainty has been laid over Østerbro, so we find our peace and safety by physical contact. An arm is laid over my shoulders, and someone takes my hand in theirs. I hold my steps, standing right infront of the small ocean of flowers and candles that has made it’s way to right here. We’re shaking, and wether it’s from the cold or the feeling of impotence, we don’t know. A man throws a lighter at us as he sees the problems we’re having with our own, so we quietly thank him – I don’t think he heard us – and finally, the candle is lit. And then we’re quiet. Heads are put on shoulders, hands are tangled up and small squeezes are given here and there. Suddenly you’re standing there, only a few meters from ones daily day, and you can feel the tears heat up your cold cheeks. I don’t know why we’re crying. I guess we all have our personal reasons. The longer we stand there, and the more people leaving, the more I cry. The more, I can feel the fear lift itself from my shoulders. But as time goes on, it hits me what has happened, and then I have absolutely no idea what to do with myself. And then I’m standing there, one of the last ones from the group, in front of the flowers, and I respond to absolutely nothing. I feel so powerlessness, and to be honest, I’m annoyed with how affected I am from the happenings of the weekend. But it’s so close all of a sudden.