The humid breeze hits my temples, the echo of a voice leads me among the stones. I wind from one rock to another to the sound of the sea crashing on the cliff. A current of air caresses my paper, water splashes my ink on my sheet. There are no more limits to inspiration, the line is pure, nervous, to the rhythm of empty and full spaces. My source is there, on the sand in the mirror of the puddles abandoned by the tide.