Call it what you will – time, loss, memory, thought, fear – it all amounts to one thing: our life. We are the sum of our losses and fears, we are what remains after we go through time and until we face our own souls – that is, after we discard our bodies and face death. No one put it better than Tolstoy: “We think that we move through time. No! Time stands still. We pass.”
       Time is another word for death, for nonexistence, and we live with it in the most intimate manner. In fact, that is where we are in pure solitude, that is where we nail our essence. That is where we claim complete freedom from our biographies, that is where we glimpse at the chance of salvation. Everything else deals with others – everything else is dependence and thus, is substitutable. If we learn to love Time and all that it does to us, we will find peace. If not we will exist in perpetual torment and fear. And hence, the poems…