When reading those prehistoric myths recorded on yellowed pages, I always detect a hint of romance from ancient times. Those faint flavors have been washed away by time, and they remain unchanged and shine calmly between the pages. I can read the tenderness brought by a flower, a grain of sand, the memory of Mount Olympus... I like it Everything about myths, I overestimate my ability to add my own opinions, and use clumsy words to describe the traces on those stone slabs... I don't want to be as exquisite as glass, but I just want to turn my back on the noisy city. I just want to use the tone of a bard to outline my own Apollo and Athena in front of the thousand-year-old stone slabs...