I don't know who did it, but it could have been me. Down deep we're all the same, us Croats. This is what they think. I guess it's true, because I think it of them as well. Perhaps things might have been different, but they weren't.
Life goes on.
And my disintegration has only just begun. I talk nonsense, my hands tremble. Sometimes I forget the way back to my shack. I spend entire afternoons walking about aimlessly, through the neighbourhood, trying to retrace my way down blind alleys. In the twilight I end up again at the door of my shack.