Regardless of the position, at the shore of the Hazel Village one is always pervaded by an inevitable feeling of being observed by two unruffled figures. Their postures dominate over the landscape. They instigate an atmosphere of suspicion which then radiates across the neighborhood encroaching on its numerous layers, textures, and currents. They act like a couple of seemingly rough guards, well aware that their uniforms alone do the majority of their task to keep the place intact. Affected by this atmosphere, quite soon after coming here, consciously or not, one begins to suspect. The entire dynamics of this place hinges on the concrete structure of these skinny figures. The flow of everyday life is anchored in their stillness, just like clock hands in the clock's dial. This stillness provokes confrontation. But before this can happen, one must wade through an ever thickening air of confabulations – those generated by one's own mind and others, semi-tonally exhaled by strangers. By now, it is clear that the silence one encounters here is a result of careful engineering and self-perpetuating wariness. If you suspect that something strange is going on, you make sure to keep your voice low. You are not vocal about it. You do not want to come across as a maverick. One fruitful strategy for hiding uncomfortable truths is through wrapping them in an atmosphere of ambiguity. Veiling them in uncertainty and confusion, so they become too inconceivable to be taken seriously. The best way to keep a secret is through circulating it as a rumor, spreading it as widely as possible in another register, a sphere of non-belonging opinions, orphan thoughts and believes which one would never have any will to die or sacrifice her reputation for. When out of the blue, someone in Hazel Village offers you a membership in a club uniting skeptics of the G5 mobile network, you might assume (with high probability), that these friendly gestures are choreographed not by enemies but proponents of this insufficiently researched technology. If a guard tells you off and leads you astray from the native grounds of the two unruffled figures, you might start betting, (again, with high probability), that their days of glory have long been counted. Most heavily secured and sensitive secrets do not need guards - those would only raise unnecessary attention. Only some chickadees at an expectedly empty graveyard sing a genuine song of an ultimate truth. But here in Hazel Village, wrapped in the fumes of suspicion, this simple song is doomed to remain too complex for the human mind to be accepted for what it is. Similarly, it is way too late here to enjoy a gift of the non-human simplicity generously offered by pigeons, splashes of water, and raindrops hitting the surface of the lake. Rubbing against each other's bodies, young and old, dry and moisturized, the countless generations of reeds lined up along the bank of the lake must be communicating something. Their murmuring must be programmed, organized in time, packed with some ciphered meaning – one's mind insists. Maybe their nervous whispers pertain to the native land on which the two ruffled figures set their feet? Or maybe they reflect discomfort caused by the mysterious blocks of concrete residing quietly in the calm waters of the lake? What stories are embedded in their rigid corpora, and where did they originate?