When he woke up, he couldn't remember anything. His head felt like a white wall, an unwritten book. Neither his name nor his age, not even how he had landed up here were written in it. Gradually he started to panic. Who was he? How did he get here? What was going on? And why did he feel like he just raised from hell? Every bone in his body ached and his sight was blurred, nut in the pale moonshine he could see that he was surrounded by graves. The question mark in his head grew with every second. What the hell did he do there, in the middle of the night, lying in the grass of an old cemetery? He noticed that he didn't even wear shoes or a shirt, only an old pair of blue jeans. Although his pants were more brown from dirt, than blue. He ran his finger's through his shoulder-length matted hair. Maybe he was a homeless. Alcoholic, living on the street. With a head shake he tried to chase away these dark thoughts, but they were very persistent, so he concentrated on other things, like his throat, that was dry like the Sahara desert and the hole in his stomach wasn't very pleasant either, so he stood up and staggered slowly to the old rusty iron gate at the end of the grave rows, where he suspected a road behind. He needed some power to get the gate, that seemed not to be used for aged, open, but he felt free as hell, as he finally stood in the middle of the dusty road leading into the dark. He didn't know how long he has been on the road. It was still dark so it couldn't be more than a few hours. His feet hurt from the rough asphalt and the sharp pebbles cutting his bare sole. Since he left off at the cemetery he hadn't seen one single car he could have stopped, so now his hopes raised high as he saw a light coming fast towards him. A black car came in sight and at once he began to wave and try to get attention. But it seemed without success. But when the car didn't stopped, he didn't think long and stepped on the street, directly in front of it. The act of a despaired, it can't be explained in other words.