Three days ago, March 23, 2013, I set out writing NEARING THE END. I pulled off one paragraph and deleted it. Time wasted, indeed. The book, a collage of my life's circumstances, is meant for Amaya. After I die, my wife, sitting on the balcony of our 4H apartment, her legs resting on the empty chair opposite, where I used to recline, she'll turn the pages wondering about this or that. For example, she'll get to know how my mother Katka wanted more...