> Pxan asked confused to a random guy on the street.

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Pxan looked at what believed to be his brother for translation

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> the man face became sad

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> the old man without teets said

After a good hour of wandering and meeting several dogs, Pxan finally found the correct street, now he must find a photograph...he looked at the road, it was a long road, a very long road. He asked a few persons, even those on the balconies if they knew of a photograph up to that road. A woman in his sixties said that his poor Francis got a stroke last night so the photograph was some hundred meters from there. When asked how the two things were correlated he replied >

Pxan was beginning to regret not being fired.

After two kilometres he found the photographer, now he should only find the correct door, alley, turn…

It was at this point that Pxan realized that there were many green doors and a door, contrary to his district, may it be open even if there isn’t inside. Sometimes the street cut right through buildings, sometimes in those buildings were offices, sometimes there wasn’t anything but crispy ladies.

Nearly by accident, he opened a door, hoping that it was the correct one, and a guy trowed at him a storm of insult so heavy and so variegated that Pxan realized how varied was the English language, that was how that guy insulted him.

> at that moment he was insulting animals >

At that point, Pxan realized that he might finally have found him.

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> if he did remember correctly one of his lungs was half-replaced and the other needed some surgeries >

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“Why I am doing this?” he paused >

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> Richard went in the other room picking up a certificate >

Pxan looked and read it >

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“Do people here still use surnames?” >

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In the late afternoon, after more than five hours of being out, asking people, responding to question and trying out to figure out the local culture he was back at the station.

> said Marth

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