Orient Stories

Work is over and people by the thousand pour out onto the square; grains of sand flowing into the beating heart of Marrakech. They play mad music. A beat of drums, of wooden soles and friendly arguments. A chant of crooked bartering, of laughter and motorcycle exhausts. A million stars burn into your eyes. Blinking neons held in absurd contraptions, candles suspended in red glass, tall men spitting fire and the minaret of...