(…) After trying for a while to take it out and not succeeding, he furiously threw the photo frame to the ground and the photograph finally fell out. Then he placed another photograph of two figures in the frame. Just then, I saw the painful dip in the corner of the frame. At first, I had pity over it, then I thought to myself the stubborn frame is itself guilty for sitting there cold-bloodedly demonstrating to everyone how life was fleeing and making everyone feel sorry. When it came to this, I instantly turned my head and covered my eyes; for I knew very well how this would end. Particularly, when I remembered the gilt plate, I was no longer willing to find that dull and quiet ending of the night as the continuation of this life. I looked no more, but the frame did not leave me alone. It was always in my sight. Whenever I entered my room, I saw a hand reappearing through the frame’s broken ornaments, taking the photo out of the frame, throwing it away and replacing it with another. Sometimes during the struggle, I looked at the objects of that fantastic room, that is, the room made out of tin from the picture frame, and it appeared to me as if they are aging too. Old and pale, all were scattered like timeworn old men into different corners. I also noticed that they fully resembled the furniture my own room. Probably they were my furniture. This resemblance annoyed me even more and in order to alleviate it to some extent I took the frame and turned it around. It did not help. I moved it to another place. No use. Then I realized it was framing an old yellowed picture of me. This was worse of all, for my shadow was not yet cast on the calico curtain as the object’s were. I took the photo instantly from the frame and tore it into pieces and threw it away. But when I sat down I realized that its dark distorted face is looking at me more mockingly and stupidly than ever and that the same thing is happening in it all over again. Then I realized that the frame is not going to leave me alone so easily and as long as it exists and is sitting there cold-bloodedly on the shelf I could not rest. After giving it some thought, I made my decision and stood up, yet when I tried to take it from the shelf, the face of the old master tin-maker of thirty or forty years ago appeared to me. I knew what he had in mind, I knew very well what he was going to say, it was no use, this picture frame had to be destroyed so that I could get rid of it and its yellowed photographs and the shadows on the calico curtain. I took it from the shelf without delay, threw it to the ground and crushed it under my feet. Yet, when I looked at the pieces scattered under my feet and saw the same cold-bloodedness and stubborn indifference in its tiniest bits, I felt the measure was useless and the frame cannot be destroyed. Why… There was however one minor subject which I did not detest: I found the deformed and broken floral patterns, which were no longer visible on the frame, in a delicate shadow over the figures of Shirin and Farhad on the calicio curtain ….From: My Speaking Picture Frame – by Ghlam Hossein Gharib, Khorous Jangi, first period, issue # 2, P. 16-17, 1949-1950, Source: Pages’ archive