He left. He had no other choice. This time to New Zealand. To Aotearoa. The traveler, travel writer, writer and poet of words, Maret Cestnik, is never left alone by the pressure of escape. He simply leaves, gets to know new smells, moves, runs away and returns. He does this for hours and hours in solitude, which, together with him, is completely content without people – even though both she and he love them. Then books are created – travelogues, poems of words. First, The Guest House, then Smile at Me with Slanted Eyes and this time, The Clothes of the Loner. There are a few worlds he goes to. He doesn't look for them to stuff into a backpack or shake on a sieve of words. In his own way, he wishes he never discovered them. So that he could always look for them.