I wish I was in Skopje in winter. I would visit the writer Goran Stefanovski in his flat, the flat with the bare table and the two simple chairs and the grey, steel-framed bed. He would have a beautiful face, all elastic and expressive. His hair line would be receding. This would touch me deeply. There would be on the table a heavy typewriter with a piece of paper in it, half a poem. And in the cupboard, two eggs. He would open that cupboard and take out the eggs and boil them in an old banged-up saucepan. Then we would eat them out of their shells and look out the window. The snow would be falling, softly.

Tutor's feedback:

And ah – the poetic tour. Goran is waiting for you. He has one egg for himself – but he is willing to share another egg, a conception, a beginning – with you. You are ready to go.