Walking through this vast land and living close to the Nomads, I realized that here, it’s not Christian prayers with their precise, circumstantial, supplicating, devout words where there is an “I” and there is a “God.” Here, the message becomes an endless and undefined melody, shaped by those winds. We stop to listen as the cold grows, because here, the cold isn’t something you feel, it’s something you listen to—blended with the wind. My soul is like the wind caressing the valleys. I don't know exactly what magic is, but I know it always begins when you no longer want to leave. You don’t want to leave the places, the thoughts, the people. A feeling I’ve never experienced before, not even in the open sea. When you return from a journey in Mongolia, you are more complete, clear-headed, aware, and spiritual. There is no longer a need to deceive anyone, least of all yourself. With its open spaces and gentle creatures, it is a purification of body and soul. Surely, I have experienced the magic and the dizzying sensation of a journey suspended in the void.