I sit on the sand, glaring the sea. A book on the lap, a pencil in my hand. The wind coming from the East directly to my face. The sun, a fire above my head. And I wait. For the next wave. For the dusty colour the warm wind will bring to my skin. And let it bring the sand. That buries my feet. That makes my eyes close. And still I wait. For the light sand. To get stuck in my hair. Between the pages of my book. Waiting for the classroom where I’ll go through the narrative and all the sand will fall on the floor as a castle. Where the so distant wind brings the smell of the sea. And my true colours back.