Kapadokya belongs solely to the myth.
It was once inhabited, in the middle of traffic plying the ancient Anatolia by connecting the logic west with the east of religion, the magic and the wonderful.
For this reason Pasolini set his Medea, as if Euripides took from those caves of mystery the golden fleece to carry to Greece.
Now nothing has remained besides the wonderful, the timeless, the silence/suspended wing over the unchangeable cobalt, the shadow/mystery of painted caves. Which people will again animate those stones? Maybe nobody. Which word will rise from underground to become harmony again? What form will clouds be in the sky? Or will it forever remain the stone and the enigma of gone seasons, of extinct spirits?
There will remain nothing but the mystery-blue sky, the moon in silvery nights, the motionless sun over lonely rocks. Forever, because the only one not to die is the myth.
– Luigi Cerantola