And how does it all begin or end? First, the Olimpia Cinema building did a "the end" and, as at the end of a movie, the letters went up little by little on the screen of the building; the Olimpia Cinema ended as movies end. Then the cinema turned into a haunting ruin of rats and kiloliters of urine, then it became a tunnel where Xipamanine and Chamanculo outlaws hid after making movies in the streets like authentic movie actors.

Then the outcasts were run like dogs, the Olimpia Cinema building was painted, shaken, ironed, and turned into a supermarket. Today, the chairs of the old Olimpia have become shelves laden with bars of soap, boxes of cookies and candy. Indian movies have been replaced by Indian spices, and where there were Chinese movie tapes there is now a shelf of Chinese-made slippers and towels.

And in that hole with the license plate "Box Office" are the drawn eyes of a Chinese man struggling with the customers' change while his hair is messed up by a fan attached to the ceiling. At the old box office you no longer ask "which of the movies do you want to see?", the Chinaman, as a customer enters, asks, "which of the products do you want?"

At the door of the old cinema today there is a huge speaker that shouts without getting tired of repeating: "come in, come in, low prices"; and in the place where posters with actors, ticket prices, and hours used to hang is, today, written: "opening hours: 8am to 7pm. Closed on holidays". And where it was written "Good session" today the letters were shuffled and it reads: "Visit us always".

My parents spent afternoons in that movie theater. My mother, by sheer force, ruminates endlessly on memories of that movie theater. She hand in hand with my father. Maybe those memories are on one of the shelves, in the expired products section, with their price tag and my parents hugging the label.

And this is a real fever throughout the country. The movie theater booths that used to project movies, today have been plucked and converted into altars of miracles of our prophets. On Sundays, Jesus Christ, commanded by the prayers of our prophets, descends into these rooms with oil from the mountains, blesses those who tithe the most, heals the paralytics, checks the offerings, and empowers our prophets to read our destinies.

Other rooms have been turned into warehouses without leaving the slightest space for the actors shot in the films they are trying to resurrect, the ticket checker has turned into a faithful warehouse, other rooms have become dwellings, and where the audience used to drain when they finished the films, today they slide down corridors that give access to bedrooms and kitchens. And how does it all begin or end?