On the wall next to my bed I keep a postcard. It is a black and white photograph of the corner of a bedroom: the bed with white crumpled sheets seems somehow bare and naked. You can see that just before the picture was taken there were two people lying next to each other in the bed. In the untidy sheets, the mark of their bodies and the warmth they left behind, I can sense their intimacy, their love perhaps. This photograph, which was not even taken here, captures the atmosphere of loneliness that, for me, is the essence of war and I realise that there is no-one I can send it to who could understand this special kind of loneliness which enters your soul in the middle of war. It is like having a piece of ice inside my chest. Where are they now? I keep asking myself. What happened to the people from this room? What happened to us? To me? To love? The emptiness, the absence of people bothers me, and makes me cry.