“As we pulled out of Zacatecas, the air was thick with the odors of smoldering ash, bloody dust, putrefying flesh. The rich ripe smells of triumph.”
“The air smelled of paper and dust and years.”
“The fig tree had dropped its fruit all over the ground. Ripe figs lay in the dust, exploded, bloody, as if the sky had rained organs.”
“The air was heavy with the smell of leather and dust, of old parchment and binding glue. It smelled of secrets.”
“Earth, Ashes to ashes and dust to dust in mother earth we place our trust and as we cycle through our years we water it with blood and tears...”
“Dust to dust, ashes to ashes. Is that all?”