The girl in the documentary had a lost look on her face, it was a Sunday morning and she was sitting on the road side near the church, just across the border of the foreign country. She looked as if she was searching for words, language, meaning, a place, beyond the camera, not seeing the photographer at all. That was all that I could think of, standing in front of my five-doors wardrobe, thinking what to fit in a single rucksack. Seven months later, I would be sitting next a woman who would bring out her precious set of albums in a special well-preserved box. She would be showing me all the memories captured in distant pictures, and I would sigh, and say that I wished I had taken some photo albums with me. She would reply that people are gone, and so are the albums.