Instinct

А whisper before language, a pulse remembered by the skin. Between heat and dust, the body dissolves — no longer woman, no longer desert, only the echo of something ancient that still breathes.

The desert breathes in dust and silence. The air is thick with something ancient, with a memory older than thought. The body moves slowly here, as if the earth itself is watching. Skin gathers the warmth of the sun, grains of sand cling to every curve, and time loosens its grip.

There is no performance, no distance between flesh and soil. There's only a quiet return. The women become part of the landscape, as raw and unguarded as the stones and thorns around them. It’s a moment outside civilization, before shame, before language. A place where the body remembers what it means to belong to the wind, to the dust, to itself.