A man in a ghetto, possibly Poland. 1943.

This thing is heavy and suffocating. These are the words that have not been spoken, the words that didn't have the time to be said, that were cut short. There are again so many things to say. To my wife, to my mother - clarify, explain. The words that were not spoken weigh like a bandage over a bleeding wound. But it is now the end. Why does this interest me still? For only a slender thread still ties me to life and it will be broken soon.