I walk through the streets, and I’m flooded with their stories.
The asphalt seemed to stretch for miles and melted under the rhythm of my feet; I took my time and allowed for the weirdness of every step.
Among the bubblegum wrappers, ovo and mango seeds I advance, never stepping on the little cracks in the sidewalk.
The city moves with me. It caresses me. The city walls are like a reptile’s scales: Hard, rough, violent.
In every block, I see the way the traffic patterns appear like metal lice and fleas on the city. They pass me by–over the avenues–moving under the same rules of the game.
I feel how the city puts on makeup and starts to be part of the makeup base, the mascara and the lipstick. Red Floresta, the fancy part of town, hides the folds, the scarfs, and the skin.
And there it is, the essence: The people–the little part of the city that makes the streets walk and tattoos the walls–give life to the gigantic, cement mass of the city.
The people are between the walls, whispering prophecies, singing forgotten ballads among the alleys, raising awareness beyond the hungry and cold frontiers.
They inhabit the city under the green, yellow and red light, redeeming the soul. The people here are dressed in formal suits, molding the atmosphere.
They are there, behind the cevichocho and pinchos stands, in the park kicking balls, hiding among the bushes.