At the residence, I studied the ghosts of the past, which exist and do not exist. And the ghosts of the present, which, if you turn away, disappear.
New ones multiplied: people and objects dissolve into yesterday, are erased from the walls, die, but continue to be - in memory, on film, in text.
*Chontology is a theory that describes a special type of being of a ghost as an entity that is neither alive (that is, "existing") nor inanimate (that is, "existed"). Chontology deals with the study of how the non-existent exists: after all, ghosts are present, but do not possess reality.
Already in March, two months after the end of the residency, I came up with the name of the project and the play about Verdingkinder, "Heaven of the Poor."

I saw a poem by Vadim Bannikov, and I caught on to the line: "When the sky of the poor was lying in a chest in the very center of one of the labyrinths, that is, it was frozen somewhere in a landfill ..." It turned out that Evgenia Izvarina also has about it: "When the sky of the poor is not crying, rooks are tumbling in it...".
And it's in me, and above me. And over those children - Verdingkinder - who were taken from their families and given to foster families, farms, orphanages and monasteries.
It seems that they have been here for two months, next to me, inside and out. My dear shadows.

Roads will open for us if the doors haven't opened. In the most famous Verdingkinder movie "Foster boy", the boy dreams of going to Argentina.

There are few people in the photos, and even if they are there, they are also like shadows. Cars and those are trying to disappear into space, not to be noticed. Houses and water work best: it seems that if you touch it with your finger, it will ripple.

I wasn't hunting the sun-it was hunting me. Creating a gap in me - the weather did not match the topic of my study. The sky of the poor cannot be sunny.

The province celebrated Christmas, as it does every year. The world is spinning, the Earth is asking to be woken up when "it's all over."

Hey, lady. Stop, stay with us. But I can't, I can't, I can't.

Nothing disappears.
The only thing that helps is a photo that would not have been printed a few decades ago. Because I wanted to hide them - children who turned out to be of no use to anyone - and hide from the topic.
But time has changed. The ghosts are here, nearby.