A story is told about a place that was not there.
In a land that did not exist, resting in a valley that never was, housing people that were never born stood a town that was not there. No one ever gave it a name because no one ever went and no one ever came.
In rare mornings when the absent sun would escape the broken horizon and climb up the invisible sky, the missing people would rise from their vacant beds. They would roam the empty streets and all day the sparse people would play. All day they sang silent songs and danced; hollow feet thumping on loose floating earth.
The missing people did not do meaningless work from grey dawn to dim dusk so they could buy food which their empty stomachs never craved. Nowhere stood shops and markets to sell this or that for there was no need for money in the land that did not exist.
There were no chiefs, leaders, presidents or politicians in the town that no one ever saw or has seen. Rich people and poor people, sick people and homeless people were scarce in the valley that never was.
Hate and love were memories lost in whispers. Fear was a rumor, kindness was hiding, misery was forgotten. The time stops and never passes, nothing ever changes in the town with no name.
I read nowhere that the missing people were happy maybe, they probably respected each other and their opinions. Everything that was made was good I hear. Everybody told the truth to nobody and only had good intentions. Nobody died from malice, all death was natural as they all lived forever.
You did not hear of this story of the town with no name nestled in the hidden valley. Nobody told you about the people who somehow lived lives uncommon but real? You did not hear the silent songs they never sang in the streets that never were. It all took place in the time that was now, is then and later.
A story is forgotten about a place that was not there.