The South, in the collective imagination, is the realm of surrender. A place where the body ceases to resist the pull of the sun, where the soul stretches languidly under the shade of olive trees. In the unconscious, it conjures a geography of desire: scorched lands, white cities drenched in light, and shores where time dissolves into the sea. It is the antidote to the North: here, one does not tame the world but slides effortlessly into it.

But the South is also a snare. Its languor, in its embrace, can suffocate. Its light, in its intensity, can blind. And yet, it is where we descend, rushing to meet ourselves, hoping to uncover a simple truth: that of the wind, the stone, and the silence.