Like a halo around the moon, a breath surrounds Vaccarello in the morning dew of a few grains that constitute a sea. I will be sand in the wind, and just by saying this word, images of dust arise immediately, which swirl with lightness, softness, and splinters of quartz, but also with the grace and sound of the wind, which whistles as if by magic on the place and makes the Little Prince of fashion appear in all its splendor. He softly whispers to us and says “Draw me a sheep,” I will give you a Bergé.