You do not feel like playing today. You prefer to fly in black with hummingbirds. They are so much more colorful than you. It’s the canelazo ecuatoriano that flows down your lips that reminds you of the ancient ones, the women of the Andes. Your felt black hat makes you look like a gaucho, the woman said, but you do not own a runaway horse to stifle the spooning waves of nausea. A yellow old church near Cañar repulses you. There are too many drippings of wax on candles in the church, too much wax slows you down.