The line winds twice around the corridors such that we are shoulder to shoulder facing opposite directions - a millipede of limbs and dark faces in the grey torchlight. A groaning ur-language emanates from the mob to a dying heartbeat of shuffled feet and what I assume are the occasional collapsing bodies, punctuated periodically by a wail as someone womewhere somewhere uses their dulledum ability to unceasingly trudge forward and breaks fighting to get out of the line and is trampled by the endless stony mass of flesh. Those screams etch a calendar on my brain as they are the only marker to the show slow trudge forward, the unceasing march (towards what?).