All the deserts are my desert. The desert opens itself in front of me in its complex austerity. It is a potent witness of the time that has written its history on rocks and boulders, now converted to dust. The silent space dances in front of me in its immense luminosity. It holds me within its invisible arms and submerges me in its depths followed by my two eyes and my camera. The desert exerts on me an inexplicable influx, forcing me to return to it over and over, with the tenacity of one that peels off the onion, layer by layer, amidst a teary and happy astonishment. I see its itinerant dunes, its pilgrim hills, its valleys with its fragile crests rocking in its whims, and I ask myself why, if I know it so well, if I understand its entrails, if I read it as the sailor reads the celestial vault; why does it still bewitch me?