It is redrawn every mile. Another horizon fills the space again. He cannot be seen, also spinning in the time of a thought, an expectation too desired, a nostalgia not yet lived. Too strong a tie connects us to the ports. She unties herself with the bitter and vague taste of this tearless sorrow which pushed us there. Now, far from everything, after or before the stopover, the boat doesn't care. And the bowsprit stretches in its wake premise. The sea is a mirror ... But, if there is no figure at the bow, then what is the point of having the wind in its sails? The purpose tolerates its importance only a little. There are so many reflections just now that the essential is never where it wanted to be expected. He takes a pose in this scroll. Without a destination, he went there for a while, at the bow.

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