The following tale is a whirling reverie of savage beauty and spectral elegance. For whom? I would suppose they had names once, but it takes place in that unenviable span as mortal remains begin their ceaseless march from bone to dust. It’s an ageless parable set in no single place, its backdrop being the anonymous graveyards, cemeteries, tombs, and mausoleums which some of us might pass every day and pay little mind. A little daydream set on El día de los Muertos. That one untamable day where the dead interrupt their eternal slumber to cavort and prance with morbid exuberance, a shadowy reflection of a vitality that now seems more like a half-remembered dream. La Enferma.