Whenever I read the prehistoric myths recorded on yellowing pages, I sense a trace of romance from the ancient primordial world. Those faint impressions have been washed and cleansed by time, yet they neither fade nor vanish. They rest serenely between the lines, shining. I can feel the tenderness brought by a flower, a grain of sand, and the memories of Mount Olympus… I love everything about mythology, so I presumptuously want to add my own interpretation, tracing the marks on those stone tablets with my clumsy words... I don’t ask for them to be as exquisite as glass. I only want to turn my back on the noisy city, stand before thousand-year-old stone tablets, and, in the voice of a wandering bard, sketch out my own Apollo and Athena…
Why not continue? The most frustrating thing about this kind of writing is that you can't predict its direction, and it always leaves you wondering what will happen next.