I just went through the notebook I am using at this time, and I am appalled one more time by how rarely I actually use it. It has been in my knapsack since September 2012, but I have managed to cover no more than thirteen pages in less than a year and a half. Amazingly, that would account for less than a page a month. Pitiful. Only the first two pages are dedicated to the single piece of writing that has ended up in my Residua (“New Tourists,” September 20, 2012). The remaining pages are dedicated to insignificant notes and inane records (“Gathering Dust,” November 14, 2013). By the way, the notes are mainly about minor difficulties with my beloved, and the records are almost entirely about my banking transactions. That is, how much money has been taken from what account and on which particular date. All of these records are penned in Zagreb, when I am away from my accounting files that reside on my desktop computer in Motovun. Now that I spend ever more time in the Croatian capital, my notebooks are bristling with an ever-larger number of banking transactions. To my chagrin, I would not even consider writing this very piece into the notebook in my hands. Instead, I went for my laptop right next to it. Pitiful, indeed.