Denis Villeneuve's Dune Crysknife | Parts 1 & 2

I was born on the west coast, by the sea. Green trees and morning mist surrounded my home, giving way to the warm, temperate sun that beat down upon my beautiful childhood. I spent hours on the sand, playing in the waves. I went hiking in the mountains with my friends to explore the forest that surrounded me. I strolled through the palm-lined streets, admiring the town's Old Spanish architecture, characterized by red-tiled roofs, white stucco buildings, and intricate wrought-iron details. I hung out with my friends at school, visited various museums, and enjoyed life. The people were cool.

It was a simpler time.

That was until I was 15 years old when my father changed jobs. He broke the news to me, which devastated me. As an adolescent, I didn't really understand the necessities of life and survival. We departed from my birthplace and relocated to the desert in the midst of summer. During the last few days before the move, my best friend handed me Dune. He thought reading it would help in the transition.

The move, while tiresome, was also exciting. The long trek into the desert was a shock. I had never seen such desolation before other than in old Western movies and TV shows.