Mom says: "I'm half Ukrainian. You are a quarter." But I weigh my inner feelings and understand that no, not a quarter. At the time of birth, it may have been a quarter. But after the first lullabies in Ukrainian - a little more. After Olga Pulatova and Elena Voinarovskaya gave words and meanings to my nervous teenage growing up, it's not about quantity anymore. After that night, when I fell asleep on the water, lulled by the waves of the Dnieper, it was already indistinguishable, without borders. And now a fierce wolf's gaze draws lines under the skin, sliding along the dotted lines, which were already torn by the father's betrayal. And I supposedly have to choose the interests of the people who sent some of my relatives to kill others? Driving my friends into basements, destroying the homes of poets, artists and musicians who made me who I am? Unthinkable and impossible. I know everything, I will remember everything, I will not forgive.