"Many times ink heals wounds. But when you start to write, you realize that ink is more bitter than all medicines.

I wanted to write about my childhood home. About the soil that I loved and never had the chance to plant. I wanted to write about the olive trees across from our house, the poppies, the daffodils, and the herbs. To write about the sun that set in the sea, immersed like sweet cherries. About the sun that warmed people's hearts. About the exquisite miracle of dawn, which did its job every morning, spreading rose-colored reflections on the horizon, gently scratching the sea, so that the seagulls would start circling. Back then, we smelled the flowers, listened to the birds' songs, sweated on our dance, watched the sun rise, and counted the stars that came so close to us and looked like lost lights in infinity and time.

With the full moon weaving the tranquility of the night indifferently, and us, little children back then, unrolling the tapestry of memories of our grandmother and mother, and enjoying Mani delicacies.

Unique images that were never written on paper, but were recorded in our childhood soul..."