My political curse, my race and my god. I will listen to the sound of the disaster, perceive the smell of smoke when we are near the truck where I'll be thrown with others who hope to beaten and scratched. The tongues of fire in the house while the noise of the engine encourages the game. Blood everywhere, huge bruises on the face, chest and back, broken bones and break meat sticks poke their ears and withered. I will direct a look of hatred towards the guard that supports your foot in the defense of the vehicle with a rifle across her chest. The van jumps hit my head on the grooves of the car. Not reach the blissful unconsciousness. Laying see the canvas of the van sink under the weight of rain, while my side is going to die in a very small rattle.

The house will be away longer. The road will be a thick mud. Not recognize the place. From soon to be very crooked. Descend all in the same direction. The man in the bracket will push us and beat us with his rifle.

At that moment, time and space have lost their meaning. The light will just be a stain that fades. The shadows grow. The temperature will drop and we helaremos to the core of our few bones intact. It will stop the truck. The subjects again. We crawl like wet sacks and throw us into a rocky soil. Will fall over each other while the voices spew their anger angry language.