When I walk on cobblestone, on a very rare occasion I might think about who put down those stones. Not ask questions about who they were, or something schmaltzy, like who they cared about in the world. I think about the long hours they worked, and how they probably just wanted to go home. I think about people just wanting to go home walking on top of the work of dead people who just wanted to go home, going to their jobs to build foundations for those in the future who will want to go home, who will not even be born but will already not want to be where they are. On the other hand, it’s not fair to assume. Maybe the stonelayer loved laying stones. Maybe he was very sentimental and memorized lots of names of rocks. He certainly didn’t overthink things like I do. On the other other hand, he might have been a racist.
I don’t always think about who put down the cobblestones, by the way. Most of the time I just walk on them.