I find myself irrelevant in the town of the mushroom folk, the town rumoured to be hidden in a hill or, if the scouts are right, under a manhole covered by a layer of autumn leaves. Those townsfolk seem to be a weird lot: they are said to look quite similar to us, but you sense something off when they look at you, perhaps it’s the radiance in their eyes or the mushroom cap on their back. I used to have a friend who, curious as he was, had visited the place once getting so impressed that he became one of them (the transformation allegedly doesn’t take long). When he returned I asked him how it felt. He looked at me strangely and then muttered something about feeling numb and mighty thirst.