The bus meandered chaotically through the dramatic fulgurating Andean relief. Around hidden peaks, cloud form swirled in magnetic unison, a solemn cummulus circulating in orbit. Gloomy phantoms without peace, without purpose. Hamlet followed hamlet until the landscape collapsed into visual anarchy, his eyes in complete dissociation with his mind – an incessant fugue.
At timely intervals and rare standstills the bus found occupation with processions of lively hawkers, each reciting their wares with a musical familiarity, yet overrun with despondence. Behind them the dulcet tones of mango and papaya, of fried plantain danced lingeringly upon idle olfactory organs until gently resigning themselves to the realms of romantic nostalgia.
He sat aboard in quiet discomfort, the heavy bass of the samba resonating bellicosely within his chest, in rhythmic regularity. He closed his eyes and focused intently, struggling to breath.