I am sitting by the window in one of my favorite Zagreb cafés. A man is sitting right behind my back, but on the other side of the window. He is smoking a cigarette, which is why he is on the outdoor terrace of the same café. Whenever he exhales, a cloud of smoke is driven toward the window by a light breeze. Each and every time, I can smell the tobacco without fail. How in the world could I ever trust this brain of mine? It is hardly mine, anyway. It evolved in a world deprived of windows.