Distrito Federal

Art. Mass. Madonna. Art was rich light. I was inside the paintings, children sang during communion, transubstantiated through culture, ovular cathedral was rich darkness. Of people. Moribund afterglow turns to water puddles and nods as drifts of garbage line homes. Donde es la Zocalo? Donded esta aquis? The sensitive tourist knows when to leave well enough alone, when to be a shadow a ghost like dogs in the city looking for a place to die. We smear away our senses long enough to absorb the stenches and be coated with dirt, to streak ourselves through the city like smog.

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