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Dull provincial city. Early morning. Gloomy people who didn’t get enough sleep are paving the way with their seedy faces for the coming grey day. A Man is standing. People pass by in silence. Some touch him with their elbows. Some look back in perplexity. The majority would not notice him. He’s ordinary. Not better, not worse than others. He’s not against the crowd, nor he is with it. He’s close, but not with them. He probably is just tired of choice. Probably he tries to think of himself. Or of a dream within his mind. Or he may simply be in thought. Thinking about life. About people. About a road or a path. That’s good when a man can think. Good indeed.