The Son Of History

Magnusson arrived from Fjörnebö The airport of a mystical Swedish island. People in a hurry drag their heavy suitcases on wheels behind them and speak unintelligible languages in their cellphones, which they keep pinched between the neck and the left ear. A Babel of tongues fills the space and everyone tries to look as sophisticated as possible. From the speakers they hear the tin sound of a new music sensation, the perfect soundtrack for such alienating scenery.