I never write at home. As soon as I decide to start writing a new book, an unknown force drives me to the random dwellings in the unknown lands. Here where I’m now, the bread has a taste of the old ages, and the milk smells with other people’s childhood. The wind here likes to hide in the trees, and the grasses whisper in a language I don’t understand. Every night in the sky huge unfamiliar stars are lit, and the Moon conjures oddly. For a long time, I was wandering around the globe borrowing from its wizards the drops of power and mystery. Why do I need it now? Maybe, the heart must be aching with pain like an inflamed tooth, to make the written story piercing and alive? I don’t know. I don’t know…

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