5,438 Steps Into Madness

I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity. Edgar Allan Poe The crowd approached the lens of the mega camera. Its gnawing rose up in the smoke of 5,438 cigarettes encircled in the density of that afternoon. Moisture brought a stench of copper and old gold and bits of coal intermingled with splinters from -what at simple glance appeared to be- a human jaw. When it rains, Palenque is as fragile and shifting as mirages in the desert. The euphoria had taken over the town and made of the palenqueros, clairvoyants. The exorbitant pressures on their optic nerve reached the braking point of their vessels. Seeing was no longer possible, now with bloody pupils, in the immense darkness, they became seers. The hour advanced in highs and lows precipitation. The cloudburst couldn't wait; heavy drops rushed down and some ran with paper bags on their heads, while others made a circle gripped by the handles of their coffee cups. In the distance a haunted chant: OTRA, OTRA, OTRA! The mantle of the night caught fire and the howling resounding swindled like pinwheels. The strange music of pain. In a defiant effort, they aimed at turning their heads like tourniquets as they marched on, insanely saints.