«If anything, it’s the sea I miss, with an endless horizon, and salt on my lips, a storm to blow away irrelevant thoughts, and the cracking of shells under my feet, foam on the waterline, withdrawing patterns of flowing senses, sand hurling with the wind along rows of dunes, in early morning hours, with old fishermen in black clothes strolling on the beach, like stepping back into the past, remembering the hard work at sea and fisher nets, on misty days and in summer nights, the sand still warm, slow rhythms of light beams from lighthouses lighting up the dark, until sunrise reveals huts and chairs and a new beginning, loving couples, wanderers and dogs and horses and children playing.»