Somewhere on the edge of moor, far away from the city and the modern way of life, walking in the wheat fields, I met a group of people. They are not allowed to walk alone. Why? Bacause they are thrilled with things like Wednesday the twenty-second, cigarettes after lunch, drawing the trains or visitors, who are interested in their pictures hanged over their beds? There I read: "When I die, it will be a small funeral."