Once upon a time, there was, under a dark hill, a blue house. A very old and very creepy house, where the winds blew, where the souls had a constant chat, flying slowly in and out the walls.
A place where childhood was unbreakable, imagination always free, where dreams, past and present grew like trees, in a strange forest.
The Blue House had no rules.
It had been there for centuries, the walls were gently falling, and the dreams wander in the rainy garden, gathering stories.
La Tarte aux Grenouilles 