This time Bernard Descamps speaks neither of Africa nor of Asia, neither of precise places nor of remarkable peoples. He rather projects onto the territories crossed images that come from within, imagined images, perhaps dreams. The book wanders through the city, the street and its little joys, a kind of bubbles that escape from banality; it also tells of unknown shores and fairy-tale mountains. These are tiny fragments of time that the photographer enjoys catching and freezing into images the better to make them last. And so, in the course of his wanderings, he met Dominique A, just back from Eleor, another country at once imaginary and real, from which equally beautiful stories escape. Photographs and songs know so well how to speak to us of a reality that cracks, wavers and flies off towards something essential: poetry.