Row number 1. Subtle backlight. The driver’s shoulder and the door frame a black vignette. My gaze drifts to the right—passengers intrude into my field of vision; to the left, I see landscapes rushing past. Suddenly, like an epiphany, this window-within-a-window opens onto a coat of asphalt nestling in the curves of the Atlas Mountains.
Within this frame—both fixed and ever-changing—a new perspective imposes itself upon the world and upon me. A succession of scenes glides along the road behind this moving screen. A vision of Morocco. A crossing of sensations and fragments of daily life. I freeze these moments, narrating my road, my boredom, my enchantment, my impulses, my journey. My sole occupation is undoubtedly the search for new windows.
The delicate sway of rose hearts disrupts this near-melancholy and welcomes new stories, born of the road’s whims. I find myself surrounded by windows and imaginary tales. The stops—timeless parentheses—punctuate this throbbing journey like sudden jolts. The frame dissolves, letting the landscape unfold between slowness and stillness, always…
New stories—sometimes incongruous, sometimes poetic, always delightful—lend an exceptional flavor to the kilometers traveled. From Marrakech to Merzouga, a window opens onto infinite, vibrant stories scattered along a ribbon of asphalt.
