Ilaria Serpi

They call it the Empty Quarter. A name that sounds like something out of an ancient tale, belonging more to legend than to geography.

The Rubʿ al-Khali is a vast expanse of sand. Its dunes stretch as far as the eye can see, some rising two hundred metres into the air. Look in any direction and there is no road, no building, no sign telling you: you are here.

After all, if the other three quarters of the world are made of air, water and earth, in this last quarter there seems to be nothing left.

Only sand.

“The road ahead is neither easy nor safe. But it must be travelled, and it will be.”

Blue. There is nothing else around me. A deep, intense blue that, as I lower my gaze, swallows every trace of sunlight and grows darker. It isn’t black. There are blades of light, long, bright rays that, through some strange trick of refraction, seem to be shining up at me from below. I know they aren’t. I know the sun is behind me, somewhere up at the surface.

I don’t know exactly when my parents first realized there was something different about my eyes. All I know is that I was still very little, only a few months old.

Dear Papillon,

this spring seems to be arriving on tiptoe. The sun still hasn’t decided whether to truly stay, and I like that hesitation. It resembles the idea I have always had of this season—something that makes itself desired. I think days like these are made for walking without a destination, for lying beneath a large tree, your back resting against the grass, a book finally open in your hands.

“Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.” – Martin Luther King

Dear Papillon,

many years ago, driven by curiosity and a certain recklessness, I went to Israel. I saw many things.

It was November, and it was warm — a beautiful kind of warmth, the kind you only get in true in-between seasons. I remember the olive trees and the desert. I remember the strange feeling of floating so easily in the waters of the Dead Sea, and the gazelle that seemed to be waiting for us at dawn among the ruins of the Masada fortress.

I feel emotional, more than I have in a long time over a political outcome (yes, political!).

And for some reason, I find myself thinking of my one-and-a-half-year-old children, who can barely speak yet. Hardly at all. But they make themselves understood, and there’s one thing they say loud and clear: no.

WE

A wave.
I think about waves often. Maybe because, reading a book some time ago, I discovered that the world isn’t made of still things. Maybe our sight deceives us, but reality is constantly in motion; it simply moves on a timescale very different from ours.

There is a thought that crosses my mind at the beginning of every year and knocks on my door. Knock knock! Who is it? It’s me! Who is me? My list of good intentions.
In 2026, I would like to… Eat better, slow down, be more present, change something about myself. A tiny gesture, often fragile and revealing.

It will be November and the days will be short. It will be standard time, which for some reason is the darkest time of year. It will also be the beginning of low clouds and lukewarm hopes that at least the cold will arrive to confirm that time does not pass only for us. It may be that the world spins in endless space, with loves just born, with loves already ended, with the joy and pain of people like me, and it may be that this was Jimmy Fontana.