In the darkest moment of winter, heaviness and despair falls on the land.  Frightened workers huddle indoors, sharing the heat of a single stove in the dance hall of the dead.  The musical sounds drift in from the streets, strings and horns and voices of the past kill time by serenading the future.  The dance floor is void of happy feelings but full of feverish dread of the coming days.  The waltz goes on forever, the tempo hypnotic, mind numbing.  The dancers know all the tribal dances that have been danced for centuries in this place.  Circles of spirited colors whirl above the floor.  The walls vibrate with deep bass rhythm and drumming creatures representing sacrifices made to tradition.  The swift current of time sweeps the crowd up in a cloud of memory and doubt.

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