I bump into Zdenka Gold and Branka Rusnov in the center of Zagreb. After a few words about Motovun, where they also have a house, Branka asks me what I am doing. “Shitting,” I point at my laptop, pinch my lips, and raise my eyebrows. “And I like it when the turd comes out pointed, which means that no shit is left in me.” After a few polite chuckles, we part our ways. But writing and shitting are surely well compared, at least in my case. Whenever I start writing, I sincerely hope that I will thus rid myself of a thought for all times. Whence the pointy end that accompanies much of what I manage to pen down. Here you are. Now go away. And return never again. Amen.