For my father, making sculptures and creating a bottle closer for the tomato juice we made from our own, incredibly delicious tomatoes was the same thing – a source of joy, for him and the people around him. For my son, climbing like Ant-Guy in the icy wilderness near Sofia and the desire to share the same context with his father and grandfather are still – I hope – different, but acceptable things. What is left for me, who appears to be the most sentimental of the three, is the sunset over our tomato beds, the freshly risen cool moon… and this incomplete text.