One arrives to Suicidio almost without noticing it. The small sandy mounds to which one becomes accustomed to after hours of traversing across the desert keep succeeding one another without interruption. One also gets habituated to the same two types of shrubs that clinch here and there to the compacted sand, never too obvious whether they are dead or alive. And one also soon forgets the pervasive wind, squeezing through the wooden panels of the carriage and creating shrilling, baby-like noises. And, suddenly, the carriage turns around yet another sandy mound and there, in the distance, Suicidio stands flat and surprisingly black, like a petroleum splatter bubbling on the scorching sand.
One arrives to Suicidio through a diversity of routes, each one of them being just one of so many ants converging towards the protection of the final nest.
One arrives to Suicidio not caring too much about the present, thinking too much about the past, and hoping for a short and definite future.