I Am never sure about the thin line between thoughts of kinship and patronising. I can only speak with my eyes. Erika, a woman unknown to me, a distant person, and yet I see parts of her vitality within me, parts of her light and hints of a lost friendship. What I fail to see, and probably wrongly is her despair, her zest appears , visually, from the pictures at least, to conquer and rise above as an ancient text of inspiration and respect. To those who knew her and loved her, I am both moved and envious of your knowing.