Choum, these sleepy houses lined up, casually, following the road on both sides. The paint only covers the facades facing the asphalt; inside, the village is the color of sand and concrete beaten and eaten by sandy wind. No contrasts in color, only in surface. I don’t know if the inhabitants are always sleepy (there should be around one thousand in this village) or if it’s only now, as it is early. Either way, the impression I am getting right now is the one that will forever remain.

After the train has left there are no loud noises in this village, no cars, very few passing on the road. All that’s heard beneath the wind is voices of humans, chickens wandering; soft steps of feet, hooves of donkeys and goats.

My own steps and breathing sound loud to me. The silence calms me, comforts me. I imagine staying here, just to be in the quiet.

Over the open sky, the sun has a long distance to move.

…

(This story told in pictures.)