As I am sitting in one of the most fashionable watering holes in central Zagreb and sipping my morning coffee, I am overtaken by a reverie about the day when a journalist will drill me in just such a place about my burgeoning acclaim as a writer. Repelled by the people sitting around me, I am staring through a large window and answering inane questions, which pile up at a clip. It is dreary out there. A long line of cars is crawling past the window.  Every now and then, someone starts honking, soon to be joined by a few others. 

Who is my idol among writers? Well, I have never had an idol, let alone among writers. Early on, a few writers attracted me as such, as writers, but the attraction never lasted longer than a year or maybe two. Afterwards, once the attraction faded, I always felt ever-so-slightly sorry for them. As well as a little uneasy about the whole affair. But that was long ago, and I do not believe that it is meaningful to think of these writers as my idols. Actually, the very term is very foreign to me. I would never use it myself. 

How do I explain my success as a writer? Once again, the very term appalls me, and I feel most uncomfortable whenever it comes up in connection with what I do. Success? What success? For many years, my only hope has been that my writings will in time attract a few kindred souls, and that I may be lucky enough to get to know a few of them. This is something the World Wide Web makes much more likely than ever before. The only measure of success I can imagine has to do with these people, but I cannot imagine there are many of them. Perhaps a dozen, if that many. 

What is my greatest goal in terms of writing? As witnessed by everything I have said already, the very notion makes me quite uncomfortable, for it implies something out there to be reached one way or another. By hook or by crook, as it were. In terms of writing, my greatest goal is to keep learning about myself as years go by. That is, to get to know myself. If I ever get close to such an ideal, perhaps I will first slow down, and then stop writing altogether. Given such a goal, I cannot imagine any greater success in life than to stop writing once and for all. 

Do I have any message for my readers? I have no messages for anyone, my readers included. Well, if I could spare anyone from messages of any sort, it would be my readers first of all.  It is upon them to find whatever they are looking for in what I have written so far. Or in what I am yet to write. I cannot imagine wishing to impart upon them anything else besides. Messages are for fools, anyhow. 

Desperate honking in the street breaks my reverie at last. The traffic is completely stalled by now. A few other inane questions come through the din, but I straighten myself, look around the place one more time, and call the waitress. To my relief, the journalist vanishes at last. Having paid, I get up and walk out. I walk faster and faster, always watching for the cars around me. Now they crawl, and now they dart about. This morning I saw two mangled cars in the middle of an intersection. One of them must have moved very fast. When it comes to reveries, Zagreb is a most dangerous place.