I’m nearly gone again, back to write ‘The Silent City’ in the south of France. Although the little house in the hills is very silent it isn’t very city-like at all. It is funny that on such an isolated place, where I feel happy, I’m working on a novel about a hectic metropolis and a depressed person. Probably my coming weeks will be filled with writing about loneliness, alcoholism, isolation and fish… although that’s what I think now, it all could work out very different when I’m actually writing. One thing I know for sure; I will be alone for four entire weeks, except for some small talk with the pool cleaner.