"The day I went astray on large heather completed by forests. He had little to my dream! A dried leaf that the wind drove me to a hut which smoke rose into the tops of bare trees, the foam that shook the blows from the north on the trunk of an oak tree, a rock aside, a pond where the bead blasted desert murmured! The lone tower rising far into the valley has often attracted my attention, I often eye tracking birds of passage that flew over my head. I imagined the banks ignored the distant climes where they go, I wanted to be on their wings. A secret instinct tormented me, I felt I was myself a traveler ... " (Chateaubriand)
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