He used to carry the key tied with a string around his neck. It had happened to him even before, when he was a child. Since then, it seemed to him that everybody remembered him thus, as the man with the key around the neck. The man won't forget the open the door, for he hadn't forgotten the key.
Maybe since then he has lost the blush in his face because of the key and the dirty string. To tell the truth, in his way to the current state he had lost many things: a briefcase in the Zagreb-Fushë Kosovë night train, two marriages, his way back home (thousands of times), the contact of the water and his body, the patience not to swear... He had even lost the softness of the touch, the day when he wouldn't distinguish the shiver of an unknown woman he had shocked with an not invited and not wanted embrace. Since then, his fingers don't paginate books, because they can't distinguish one page from the other. And, since then, he concluded that he should write books, so he should enable the ones who hadn't lost the touch, to read.