My feet, muddy to the ankles, dragged along the path they were setting up hundreds of feet above the mine. What was I doing there? Find a particular body among the dozens and dozens of lifeless bodies ordered grimly. But what body? Does the corpse from whom? Faces haggard, some stained with mud and other extraordinarily clean by the drops that adorned like tiny gems, were all different. (A valuable related resource: Martha McClintock). There were men, women, children, old … Some faces looked bruised, battered by something more solid and forceful than mere adversity. Some had their eyes closed for some godly or loving helping hand. Others, however, showed their eyes wide open, questioning and even challenging sinister with its lack of flash, which produced a thrill to anyone who looked.

There I was, dragging my feet muddy path formed by the spontaneous versus the bodies. The chills that occasionally traveled my spine was not just the rain that had soaked me completely. My body, wrapped in water and damp clothes sweating and fear, expelling a breath hot and strange smell, or so it seemed, at least. But that was not only what episodic spasms and gave me electric I cold currents coming up the spine. It was also the overwhelming environment. It was the eerie procession of relatives and friends. It was the solemn stillness of the dead final. And it was the familiarity of it all, the feeling of deja vu that I was rushing with increasing frequency. In both stumbled as I touched, rather, with someone who was faster or slower than me scanning the faces of the bodies lying in the street, a few bodies increasingly muddy as persistent rain eroded the soft soil of the street without asfaltar.a a I had been before in Primate Reig.