I have got an antique mirror, a chair and a writing desk from my mother-in-law. In my new house, there are reflections of them that create a corridor of memory. My books, film festival badges, brushes and paints, and an unfinished painting also fall into this corridor. I like a lot the poster featuring the meeting with Artavazd Peleshyan which I stole from the bulletin board... All this was before the 24th of February. Since then I have stopped working as a journalist, I cannot paint and watch movies. Since the war in Ukraine began, I have been looking at the portrait of Sonya, which you can see next to my writing desk, painted by Christian Schad (1928) and I have been thinking about her destiny as a German refugee during WW2. Next to the portrait it is a dried bouquet that was given to me before the war. I do not throw it away in the memory of last February. There is a wooden house on the windowsill our son is playing with. I look at this house and think that many people have lost their homes. I have also lost in the baroque curls of the mirror, in the corridor of memory, and I do not know when I am able to visit my homeland again.