Parole, parole, parole…

At the end it is only words that you can bring with yourself from every bit of life in a foreign country, they seem harmless and airy and pleasant to say : eventually you realise they have reshaped your brain, your eyes little by little.

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Journal of one month trip in China, 2012, Kashgar , Tashgurkan and the Karakorum Highway

The morning in Kashgar is made of doves diving into the trees, people walking fast to the first prayer of the day, uighur chattering. Next to the Mosque a tea house is invaded by people celebrating a newborn or a wedding or who knows what, while smiling musicians walk the guests gently into the dawn, which as everybody that has ever gone to a party or stayed up all night knows well, is a much more terrifying transition than the day into the dusk (kids scared of the dark don’t know anything, not yet).

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