What happens when you start to meet what you recognize as familiar and lose it along the way? But also, what can happen when in its place you find something else, different and equally charming?

Who keeps the place in its place, where it was before, now, and always. Or rather: who perpetuates the unbearable, the mentalities that stubbornly remain rocky, but also the leaps towards the new and the unknown, all that constitutes the Greek individuality, which is highlighted through the stable, few but timeless characteristics? The only answer that one would risk, assuming the hypothesis of the question, seems to be: ALL OF THEM.

And Aristos and Vasiliki, and Tryfonas and Chrysanthi, and Apostolis and Virtzilis and the Captain, and Pashalis. And none of them alone, none, as we all draw from the same well, from that underground and inexhaustible mine.

A story in memory of restless youth, of those who thirst and seek what always returns, remaining the same. For those who come from long ago, for those who were and are all our children.