A sunny Sunday, with sky blue and cloudless definitely and impalpable veils, this morning I woke up. The strangest thing for writers is that in the most unexpected moments, moments in which we assume prohibitive for the realization of a line, here a sudden the eyes’ image is revealed, are the flowers of the terrace of my house and it is this image of nature that seems to explode with vivid colors and harmonies that absorbs me in the moment of contemplation, a sort of ecstasy, and so charmed I realize my smallness and frailty.