Director's statement

I returned to my parents in winter. In an abandoned village, my octogenarian parents live in isolation with their routines, the pain of recollection, and of living in the present. What is the cure? My old mother is my cure. Familial misfortunes have not shattered her, who stood in the barren fields looking for the cure of reality, holding up the decency and pleasure of being. Amidst the ruins my mother sings, pretty, pretty, really pretty. This is the healing balm prescribed to me. Life itself is a bland remedy, in need of an analgesic to treat the putrefication