I just saw a man in his late twenties or early thirties walk into a glass door of one of my favorite cafés in central Zagreb. Luckily, he was not walking fast. He hit the glass with his forehead, and then stepped back in surprise. Holding his forehead, he looked into the glass, which was still vibrating from the impact. It appeared that he could not believe what had happened. Looking at him, though, I was not surprised at all. He struck me as a man who would walk into many a glass door. Pale and gaunt, as well as slightly stooped, he looked like an exemplary daydreamer. Glass doors must be his greatest distraction. Nay, his nemesis. Before he vanished from sight, I did my best to remember him. Seeing the daydreamer walk into another glass door would be quite a delight, I reckoned. The only thing I could not figure out was why would I wish to witness his predicament over and over again. The thrill of foretelling?