Right across the horizon of two-floor houses and palm trees, the promising blue line stretched as far as the eye could see. Every now and then, the uniformity of that blue vastness was scratched. The seagulls stormed the neighborhood with their impatient shrieks, impatiently looking for impatient babies to feed them impatiently. This was in sharp contrast with the quiet horizon, a line between sea and sky filled with promises of past and future, the present suspended from that blue line. If it were a postcard, no one would believe it to be exactly like that. But it was indeed a blue vastness interrupted only by a white line of seagulls on their way out to sea to fish impatiently, bringing back a line of fish, a line of seashells, or a line of hope.