Where is this road leading to? A distant village? A beautiful lake? A big city? And why are these trees so high that I don't see the tops? I hear the sound of the wind up there, but down here it is quiet. And the soil laying on the fields beside the road is as black as the night in the South, without the stars. I am standing here, on the side of this lonely road with my easel, and I don't know what the name of this planet is. I got my box of paint and brushes, a piece of white paper, and I am waiting. It is always hard to start. And even harder to finish. People are passing by, but they don't see me. Men have dark mustaches and gold teeth, women are drunk and laughing. Centuries ago, Roman soldiers went this way, and never came back.