I would like to write to you about Mihail Bulgakov's book "The Master and Margarita" ("Saatana saapuu Moskovaan") but it's not very easy. My head is full of witches and magic and every time I think I could say something about that book I can hear a little black cat wishpering that I should be careful with my writings... if I don't flatter him enough there might be consequences...

I promise I will write about that book but not just yet. You have to wait for awhile. It's such a beautiful book, so full of everything you could ever dream of and I have to think it through first.

Now you have to excuse me. It's a dark warm summer night outside my window and I think I have to go. I have a feeling that there's some kind of weird celebration going on somewhere and they can't start without me...