From the middle of nowhere, a man is gliding through his past, back in the USSR, trying to bring it over to his daughter why she grew up without a dad. What for? To marshal a bunch of self-excuses and belated explanations? Anything can be explained; nothing can be redone. The unending letter to an unfamiliar daughter flows over the frames of self-justification into summing-up and final analyses of "parts of my own life because, as long as I'm alive, I am interested to find out what happened, how and why". Confession? Indictment? Maybe a poem? All in one. Just life as it is.
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