We're sliding atop the rickety railway trains through the tin-shack paradise, garbage heaps of Brazil, the skinny gangsters and their old police pistols and the death squads, the dirty feet of the youth watching from the effortless and executed shadows, stomping and shouting like excited and white-eyed, frenzied jackals when an assassin makes a kill, the cracks of blood-hot lightning and powder in the air, a tattooed cat scurrying off down an ally into a cardboard apartment complex hung with copper and chicken wire, the bruised blue and swollen faces of the prostitutes in the dumpsters and sweaty tooth soldiers in their Jeeps, the dark places where people crawl to sleep, the expanding red puddles on the tarry asphalt.