About the book: year / This book itself will say everything that it is destined to say. There is almost no fiction in it, everything is based on the truth that drills and glimmers in the gaps of the letters. It could break up into a heap of newspaper articles, fussy reports and a couple of intimate conversations about the meaning of what for many of us does not make much sense until we ourselves shoulder our heavy splintered cross and set off with it on our shoulders on our own path sorrow into the lacy funnel of deceptive constellations that suddenly opened up above your head. This book is about how our world is still eccentric and zealously cruel. About the fact that any person can become a direct victim of his own wanderings. About the fact that a stranger is still just a target for capricious slaps in the face. And that our flesh, as at all times, is the only hostage through which they try to persuade us to unfreedom, and we hastily give in, just to quickly serve out our temporary life, just to protect our bones from the pouring rain.