Because they cannot be near, the written word sometimes becomes the only way to give themselves to others. People die, illnesses take their toll, coldness settles in. Through words on a page, love continues to resist the passage of time. By addressing the recipient in a letter, we are simultaneously speaking to ourselves. Time passes through the lines, clings to the letters, leaving fragments behind. One can hold a page up to the light and see—fragile life.

My mom is sick. And I am also sick. She is afraid of being alone at home, in a dark apartment. What's left of her. Lots of information from the hospital. Snapshot of the brain. And dirty floors in the apartment. There are still photographs and a red notebook where my mother wrote about me when I was born. Now my mother no longer remembers that I am her son. Sometimes he confuses morning and evening. But he remembers and reads poetry. But it's more of a question, what's left of me? From us? From a country where the elderly are forced to wait at the trash cans for a delay from the store, and the Psychoneurological palliative system is modern concentration camps where people suffer. Today, when a terrible, hateful war is going on, we must ask ourselves the question, is there anything left of man?