Everything seems to last forever. Black holes, smaller stars, love, war. Almost everything except peace. It’s a constant war. Even when we’re sitting around the breakfast table having a croissant with a little piece of peach. Every day is war, or cold, or invisible, or war for some unknown reason. It seems that wars cannot be universal. Let’s say the fire fired in Syria has nothing to do with the bullet fired in another part of the world. Let’s say that Azerbaijan, which started a war against Armenia, is not like Russia, which is doing the same thing now. I was talking with my Ukrainian and Georgian friends and I felt that we were all united by the supreme need for peace. In all of our lives, there is a Soviet car that took us away from our parents and from them. All of us are similar to each other and all of us seem to have the same ways of struggle: art, literature. We all write. We are all trying to find a way to fight against authoritarian regimes through literature and artistic expression. I was talking and there was a feeling that we know and understand what our parents didn’t know and didn’t understand at the time.