An optimistic middle-aged mother named Francesca walks us through mountains of trash of the Estelí city dump in Nicaragua: her home. I shudder as a plethora of nebulous, poignant emotions hits me like a feral wave. My intuition knows the importance of grasping these ephemeral yet profound sensations, but my heart sinks as I realize I am powerless to them, for I have left my pencil and journal in the bus. They are the instruments through which I can bring...