At the same village there lived another personage. He had a big oval head of a white colour and his face was one-sided. He was vey thin. He lived remotely from the other village dwellers. His little house was on a hill. Once or twice a week in the evening he would come out and write under a tree that grew beside the house. His stories were very simple and not original at all. That was a subject of an frustration. Why couldn't he write something great, he thought to himself very often. He was very well-read, and he respected the famous writers and couldn't stand the mediocre ones. But something kept him from writing like Shakespear or Kafka. Was it the vanity of life? He didn't know. Nevertheless, once in a while he would come out into the fresh air and compose a line or two untill the moon came out.