Every morning in the South of France feels like a quiet competition of who can rise earlier — the fishermen, the bakers, or the retirees with their espresso cups.
The air is mild, the sky pink, and yet everyone is up before dawn, smiling as if sleep were optional.
Meanwhile, I — a devoted admirer of both poetry and pillows — keep wondering: how do they do it?
Maybe it’s the rhythm of the land.
Maybe it’s centuries of petits choux waking up with the first light.
Or maybe they’re just born with lighter dreams.
📸 Saint-Raphaël market. Oysters, sunrise, and existential questions before 7 a.m.
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