When I want to think about something beautiful, my mind immediately travels to the summer festival that we call Mykonos. All were engendered by the brute of the north. The people, fleeing from its rage, gathered their homes and their hearts together, and barricaded themselves in the alleyways of Chora, which welcomes you to the old harbor with its dancing boats. Someone is turning the pages of an invisible book and whispering the words of the wind, the old stories that bring us back here each summer.
