The desert sky is shameless—at dawn, it ignites with streaks of fire, and at night, it flaunts its stars. When I lived in Las Vegas for a year, I finally understood what a friend once told me: “Only by living in the desert do you know if you come from it.” Without a doubt, my blood carries the memory of some long-buried red bones.
The first time I saw a Mojave sunset, it took hold of me. I don’t know exactly what makes us look at certain horizons and declare them ours. But I claimed the Mojave as mine—every single morning that I rose to watch it. Is it a story yet to be revealed? A body settling into a place that feels like home? A long-awaited encounter? Or is it all of these things, and more? I don’t know.
Las Vegas was our first stop on our nomadic journey, where we lived for a year.
