The old man that drove that lorry for decades and a day, had closed that door finally a long time ago. But I still remember his kindness, sincereness, decades ago. When he died, his children just could not sell the old lorry. It would have been like selling your father.

So, life passes by. Cars roar to youthful feet, lost ones stumbling by, people strolling to work and then back home. Table Mountain, a far off blue, a watchful priestess, looking after all with some farr off sadness. Then, when the sun decides to call it a day, then Table Mountain, first with a halo, then withering, gradually sinks into the stoic well and blackening of night.

But the old lorry remains. Awaiting darkness, awaiting the morning. Awaiting the staunch midday. But never again the machine will start up, roar, again. The lorry has become a very monument of a personal long gone past.