On the bare road of the desert, everything seemed held in a dreamlike gravity. The silhouettes moved forward slowly, hieratic, like queens in exile crossing a temple without walls, between the eternal sand and the shadow of an ancient circus not entirely erased by the wind. The garment, a silent architecture, wrapped the body not to adorn it but to consecrate it, turning each step into an almost sacred act.

The gowns, vast as the memory of fallen empires, trailed behind them a weary majesty. One felt the weight of day and night, the tension of balance, that suspended moment when momentum restrains itself so as not to fall. Nothing was literal; everything belonged to suggestion. The figures did not appear, they endured, inner survivals of discipline, of noble solitude, of a still courage facing time.

The desert became a stage, the road a meditation. The rare, precise glimmers of light shone like constellations set upon shadow, not to speak of wealth but to mark the abyss. Grave beauty, consenting to lose itself in order to reign more fully, advanced toward a horizon opened like a sacred page, where dream brushes against vertigo and silence, at last, governs.