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I wonder where they are now? Says the newspapers, the news-not-on-papers. I wonder too. And yet, I never wonder for long, for famous humans, for people. Other people, reporters, bloggers, stalkers, themselves even, always end up shouting the famous person's every movement. Even people who disappeared from the spotlight, to the dark side of the universe, are still mentioned, albeit rarely, by people who admired, or still admire, them. People who are hated are even more known, with swarms of angry voices yelling out their location without the slightest regard to privacy. And the people who are dead, are just dead, underground, and need no more explanation for that.

What about the famous things? The objects, once massively famous and prized, now steadily dropping in value and fame? These things, not being human, are not alive. Never changing, and in a way, need no explanation for that. They are dead, having never lived, and now their corpses are rotting, rusting, corroding. No one needs to explain, or shout, or express any feeling for something which can never change, and can only disappear. They disappear forever, unless some miracle revives their memory far enough so that they can continue, just a little longer, on this vanishing act.

I wonder where they are now. It is a shame, to have never known something when it was famous. I knew the books of my favourite authors, and even though they now decline, I still know their stories, the times and places where they were created, where the rare first editions now reside. To not know the passage of time, to become, suddenly, aware, of the presence of a thing whose fate is now unknown, causes the process of rediscovering it so much more difficult. How old was I, when this object disappeared? Only in my first year of primary school, not knowing of its existence. What happened to it, while I was oblivious to it? The timelines of it and myself are close in time but far in space and memory. The gap between its known existence and my discovery of its unknown existence is a blacked out space in my memory, created once I did not knew, yet did not know, of it.

Blaming myself of being too oblivious did no good, as time could not reverse, and if it did, then I would be a different person, with different thoughts, and would not blame myself for this. I could not know, and will never know. The people who remember it when it was at the height of its glory are now much older than I am, and only recall it as a vague childhood memory. The articles on Wikipedia tell of nothing other than its life, and nothing of its probable death. It was last seen two years ago, and its existence is more and more endangered with each passing day. Its creators, losing the sentimentality towards it, become more inclined to get rid of it, now probably a non-functional liability. With each passing day, I get closer to being old enough to go out and find it, with the sparse information available, yet each day is a drop in its life. The fear, not sharp, that once I do find it, I realise that even I have no passion for such things any more. The fear that it will never be found, or else that I would find it crushed into its atoms, buried under the ground. It could be dead, and I would never know.

I can only say, that it is not dead, and that is all I probably know.