One day I will die. Of liver failure or diabetes or by getting hit by a car or, my preferred version, in a spectacular explosion after I’ve saved my wife and the world from a megalomaniac madman. If I’m lucky, someone will sift through my notebooks and find something useful for other people to read, but most likely my books and kitchen chairs and tea kettle will end up in one of the shops in Wedding that buy household clearances en bloc. And no one will care about the fact that I once sat in front of the castle in Olsztyn with a beer, smoking my pipe and watched the sun set behind the ramparts and the forest. And neither shall I.