The narration of shared memories from trips with Bijan Farhang DareShouri, written by Nasrollah Kasraian.

A tree leaning against the wall of the stairway, which maybe the sea brought from another continent, maybe from the Indies, to the Qeshm beach that Bijan save it from death and destruction, it doesn't get off my back and it takes me from the stairs to the Indies ... And from the Indies to ... I say, Bijan, what will happen to these things after us? It seems like I'm thinking about my negatives and slides... He says, "Umm! I don't know... They will probably throw them away after us." I say, Bijan, It took you about 60 years to collect these, You have put every piece of it in your bag from somewhere in the corners of this land, you brought them home, from this home to that home, from a city to another, Instead of Parvin's equipment, you loaded this tree on a truck, why? With what purpose? so serious! He says I don't know…
I say, Bijan, these are history, the history of humanity, life, nature, your own life's history, the result of a person's lifetime effort. Something must be done with them... He says, "I don't feel like anything anymore... " Suddenly I remembered my young friend “Sina”, who is the art director of a gallery; I picked up the phone almost immediately and called... His number is one of the few numbers that I have memorized. A device answers from that line, The subscriber is not available… Your message via..." I will discuss with Bijan until one or two hours later when Sina calls back, He says, "I am not interested in these coxcombry things." I say, Bijan, I don't either... Now it's the youth’s turn, They are interested, and they know how to organize things. Life is a kind of relay race; our job is to take a piece of wood from the previous runner and give it to the next runner... And that's how life continues. N. Kasraian, 27 Esfand 1401, Shiraz.