Not far from Nottingham road which was every morning a queue of cars whose angry drivers were the opposite of the first sunbeams of the day which even hit the smooth surface of the mostly black and grey cars, not far was a great, old tree.
The cars show how the owners are, black and grey, unseen, invisible in the flood of people who are going from A to B while the persons living at point C which is in between A and B are asking themselves what is that great at point A that so many people of point B enjoying go there and what is that great at point B what makes the people of point A driving there and why they can't decide to rest at one place.
In between these to points – Nunburch town and Millar city – was Nottingham road with its village Nottingham village which isn't a village anymore, a random visitor could see two or three old reines, a little lake and a very old tree. But there weren't any random visitors, there were merely men and women in black and grey driving black and grey cars doing black and grey boring jobs the whole day, all the year, for their life.
Once, a philosopher asked if there is no one to see something happen – has it really happened?
Nottingham village is an unseen speck in maps which is that less interesting even no construction business is interested in. And Nottingham village has died.
On the old tree next to the road in pinned an old photo showing a laughing boy with brown hair. Who is he? Is he dead? What's his name? What does he like? When was he born? Why is his photo here?
We don't know. We can't ask the black and grey men and women who cross this road every day, they're in a hurry. What will be, if no one remember him any more, sun and rain have destroyed his photo?
I'm afraid of posing the question to that philosopher: Will he ever have been existed?
