Watching over a balcony, a thick layer of fog slowly approaches, like a duvet wrapping one’s body and hugging the waist. The vapor of a roobois tea blends in with this morning perfume, still stuck in our sweater; and the smell of black pepper crusted game roasting in the oven.

Grandfather and granddaughter walk into a maze late at sunset, him wearing a leather jacket, her, a silk ribbon in her hair. The road is gravelly and the walls smell of violets and roses, while the sound of a swinging chair oscillates like a pendulum from afar. They turn back home, led by the smell of smokiness coming from the kitchen announcing diner is ready. She bites into some dark chocolate until getting home.

A piano and a cello, a suite from an older time and a foreign space/ A tempo, più presto, a flat... and back to the rhythm, seamlessly/ A crystalline acoustic, a timeless melody played by young hands with a soft touch and vibrant eyes.

It is Saturday morning and the sun is shining inside the room. The soft white linen sheets contrast with the cold cement and steel structure framing the loft. Suddenly an overwhelming joy invades us, like jumping on top of the bed as we did when we were kids. And eating a lime cheesecake for breakfast, still in bed.

Sitting on a beach near the port of a small village during Golden Hour, watching the fishermen coming back from the sea with fresh fish and oysters in their nets. A hot and humid breeze caresses one’s skin while the hands feel sticky from the salt and the sand. There is no rush to return home while the twightlight is still on.

Exploring a forrest under a full moon, picking up red berries along the way that become bluer and blacker the more we step into it. A persistent magnetism pulling further deep into its core, surrounding by Forbiddance and Excitement. And so the movie ends... or does it really?

A long autumn walk during Indian summer though a field of ripe yellow apples, baking spices and nuts, stepping over a satin volcanic road.

A bohemian arrow carrying along white flowers made in powdery texturized plaster. Its head trespasses with precision a ripe lemon, and the drops fall on artisan female hands, where one can taste sea, land and freshness.

Passing one's hand slowly over a tablecloth thrown over a polished wooden table embroiled with dry flowers and autumn leaves over which dried spices were poured along. Grab the table's edges with soft firmness, hoping this familiar feeling will stay a little longer.