One day, I felt the fire of travelling burning inside me.
I was thirteen. It was in Sahara.
My father - or my mother - was driving the white Renault 12 rent in Algiers.
My sister was sitting next to me.
A sand wind began to blow.
The car had to stop.
The wind blew the road away.
That was the very moment when the fire of travelling began to burn inside me.
The wind - the journey - had this power of washing out everything.
The math paper, the strain of living, the previous stop, the already written page.
Travelling was life revisited at every step : blank page, new skin.
When the wind stopped blowing, Ghardaïa appeared after a bend, as in a dream.
Where you can find it? Exhausted publication, you can find it at the author's home -look for contact- (with his signature!)