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In front of the stone The time is yawn on the curves of the Tavush region. Clouds melt turning into a green ocean, a taxi, like a small boat, maneuvering in the green foam. I'm going home, now an abandoned house. I would never have thought I'd write an abandoned word next to our house. The driver doesn’t suspect that I’m well acquainted with the area and he is beginning to take a guided tour, I don’t interrupt; It is always interesting to look at a familiar image with a stranger's eye. In the evening we reach the center of the village, the car can’t take me home because of the rough road. I walk to the home and anticipating the fact of seeing the house. The street has become smaller. Well, of course, the street can't shrink; I've grown up, it's a spatial deception. For a second my eyes want to embrace familiar sketches and measurements. Spatial longing. The sky is deep in the village, and the light of the stars is incomparably brighter. But here too, there are street lights that take away the shine of the stars. It seems to be the only noticeable change. Years ago, in the evening we were walking with my friend and asking God for nothing to change in the village. God heard our request, but we didn’t listen to ourselves and didn’t return to the village. It is a full moon and it’s impossible to sleep. The walls have absorbed the past in their skin. The abandoned house is a vacuum of memories. The memories run out from the time’s bin and my thoughts begin to cause physical pain. When I was in school, shooting didn't stop for a few days, and when we were home alone, my sisters and I had a solemn meeting. Three children were discussing what items and food needed to be prepared if the enemy suddenly invaded we were ready to take refuge in the forest. I even cried from the thought that someday we might leave our home. Ironically, now that I would have no fear of shooting or sheltering in the forest, now that there is no need to leave home, we have abandoned it. Now that small girl looks at me with wet eyes and screams in anger to me - You're a coward... In the same house with her, I can't be left alone, even the wine don't saves me from my old self. There is no sleep and no need. It is already morning and the taxi driver is late for an hour. I'm still here, but I start to miss the crooked walls at the same time I am annoyed at the delay of the machine which will separate me from the house. I wanted to run away because the shadow of that future longing was heavy. I decided to take a small revenge from the taxi driver and left the house; now it's his turn to come and wait for me. I went to the cemetery because the graves are by the names of the dead, but they are for people who live. I walk through the vertical stones. The world is silent and I breathe that silence. Here's the one I needed... recently, a writer, who read one of my stories said me that if you kill your hero, then you are a bad storyteller, you have chosen the easy and lazy way because you don't want to think long. And now standing in front of the stone I'm thinking, was the God lazy when he was writing your story, dad?