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Cusco. An untouchable village cowers in a deep ravine, creviced, smudged and shadowed by the colossal, repulsive, mountain sides, leaning, terrifyingly to engulf. The village seems frightfully fiendish, revelling in its alien-like elegance, brutally enslaving its mind-swept inhabitants. Yet it seems tentatively alive, slowly, surely, dying from vanity. The sly, cunning hawks set a rendezvous point on the top of the magnificent, stunning clockwork tower, where they will endlessly visualise their near extinct prey, locking on like robotic, resurrected sniper rifles and eventually rocketing, plummeting towards the forever beaming earth's crust. Heroic, crumbling ruins have stood the wrath of time, lying and eroding on the summit peak, exhausted and haggy from its medieval battles. A gentle, mossy, edible odour gets tangled up in a faint, cushioning breeze, carefully wafting past my delicate, inquisitive nose. Towards the horizon a lonely, melodramatic, half evaporated lake drools repulsively in the dim, unforgiving canopy, forgotten, frightened and withering. The crumbling, rough texture contacts my flaked skin as I lean against the Brailled, granite faced wall. The elevated clockwork tower strikes and rumbles the withstanding earth perilously too close for comfort. A musty breath erupts onto my neck; my last ceased breath is haltingly captured by the demons of Cusco.