“There was a child, on this island, who didn’t want to swim out of fear of turning blue; so, from Miramar you can see so much blue that it is strange that the boats passing by are not coloured ultramarine when they reach dry land. You can’t see anything else. Everything is there. It either reaches the sky or it pulls it down: but out there everything is a single thing, and those waves so troublesome to those travelling on them, from here, are nothing more than wrinkles on such a delicate skins, that it seems you could smooth them out with your hand.
Above this bright blue sea there are mysterious paths that, since they keep changing places, must only be known to fish.”