My paintings delight me ever anew. Whenever I return to Motovun, I stare at them for a long while. I miss them in Zagreb, too. As is almost always the case, the last one is my favorite (”The Motovun Bug,” June 24, 2011). It attracts my gaze again and again. It also gives me comfort, if that is the right word. For better or worse, it reminds me of where I happen to be. It gives me the precise coordinates of the place I call, as it were, home. Something is bugging Motovun, indeed. And I should never forget it. As long as I live, the bug will keep reminding me of my fate in this godforsaken hilltown. I do not dare even think of my next painting, though. It might detract me against my better judgment. Come to think of it, should it be another, perhaps even better, rendering of the pestering bug?