Very much aware of my departure from Motovun tomorrow morning, I am walking around my house every now and then and looking at my paintings lined up on their battens. The livingroom downstairs is crammed with them, and so is the open corridor connecting all the rooms upstairs. All together, there is one-hundred and one painting downstairs, and forty paintings upstairs. And each one of them means a great deal to me, for there is a story behind it. But there are more than that many paintings in the attic, I realize at some point. Only a few of them are on display up there, while all the others are stacked behind each other in three long rows lying next to each other on the floor. My beloved and I plan to take a bunch of them to her apartment in Zagreb at some point, and we know exactly where to place them. The only question is when. At the moment, there are only six of my paintings in the apartment. “Way too few,” I feel like shouting out of the blue. While I am in the Croatian capital, I miss my paintings so much that it is high time to do something about our plan. As soon as possible, too. We will talk about it tomorrow evening, I am quite sure.