The desert never looked more beautiful, the night never looked more cheerful, and the stars never looked more shiny. And here we are, sitting around this camp fire, wishing its warmth cover us and its flames carry us away, far from ourselves, far from the ordinary, far from the disciplinary.
Carpets of sand are all what we tread upon, mixed with lonely shy stones, sinking into the grit once touched by our feet. And the mountains and hills like a Colosseum stand, all around us, keeping an eye on us, an eye of protection, an eye of inspection.
The desert weather is a known cliche: scorching in the day as well as at night, one from the heat and the other from the cold. However, this night looks different, for the scorch seems to be searing, and mildness is taking its place.
The cars and tents and gear and supplies, all are kept at near, yet for once the spot light deviates away from them and is spotted above our glow, in the circle around the camp fire. Sitting together, side by side, like a finely crafted necklace, even glittering like one, a reflection of both our leather clothes and our wide open eyes.
The camp is set, and so are we, but one single detail is missing. The camp fire is still burning, but wood is not its only fuel. The flames are giving a mute scream, to me so loud, but the louder scream profoundly remains inside.
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