Once upon a time, not too far away and not so long ago, on a small island on the map, there was a painter who did nothing more and nothing less than paint. Mountains and skies and rains, lions and fish and fruits and people, he painted everything with the same simplicity and beauty. He lived at the top of a mountain, in the center of the island, and all the inhabitants knew him and would pass by his little house and tell him their complaints, their stories, and the problems they had with each other. They liked him because he didn’t talk much, he only listened. He always stood in front of his canvas, painting and patiently listening to the pains of the people.