Come to think of it, maybe God is a He after all, because only a cruel force would create something this beautiful and make it inaccessible to most people.

Individually, every grain of sand brushing against my hands represents a story, an experience, and a block for me to build upon for the next generation.

More than anything, this place feels familiar. I bury my hands in the hot sand and think about the embodiment of memory or, more specifically, our natural ability to carry the past in our bodies...

It’s a lot like the Wild West out here… just with tea shops instead of saloons. Wild West Sahara, that is.

If asked which words one associated with the Sahara, only the most dedicated surrealist might be expected to offer “whale”.

I love like I’m thirsty. Can I offer you a tall glass of Sahara sand?

If you’re getting up to cross the Sahara, I could sure go for a bottle of water. My thirst to love you will never be quenched.

An ice sculpture in the Sahara makes about as much sense as donkey left open gaping wagon, Sergeant (add cream cheese sparingly).

He would not now conduct little Nell to the coast; he would not convey her by a steamer to Port Said, would not surrender her to Mr. Rawlinson; he himself would not fall into his...

Sahara knew she should be worried about the fact that she’d been in bed with a man who’d caused that kind of damage with a momentary and, according to him, minor loss of telekinetic control...

Mine isn’t going to grow back.