The war is going on both there and here. I carry that war in me, not forgetting about it, feeling its weight on my shoulders, remembering the dead. I talk to them in my dreams and ask if they know they are dead. The city is getting emptier without them. And I know that I will never meet them again by chance on the street. They will not walk the cobblestones of Lviv, nor will they look through the windows at the animals sitting on the windowsills. They kept the fire from reaching here.