Obsidian lidar, papel picado kites, and a rebozo-antenna. In Xochimilco, Tlacuilo helps a canal fix an ancient spelling mistake: it learns to return.

Power tianguis, solar jacarandas, and a cinnamon-voiced block AI. Santa Tere learns to switch on the light where hands begin.

A telescope, two rules, one focused kiss. A matchbox note dares you to name a star that doesn’t exist—Providencia under electric starlight.

A shadow library-market, Comadre Segunda, and a recipe to cool August: light arranged as rest.

One table, one camera, shared rain. A portrait on the back of a napkin and a kiss timed like a long exposure—Chapultepec under glass.

A sideways cold front, limes remembering themselves, and windows finally cracked open—Houston offers a brief coupon for mercy.

Rush hour. A hummingbird-serpent with no label stitches glyphs over a crowded car, opening routes for kindness on Line 3.

A translator’s underline, a folded note, and a dusk rendezvous under Expiatorio’s arches—where echoes translate into something like romance.

Closing time, warm vinyl crackle, one headphone each. A dare to play Side B turns into a brief, tuned kiss and a date pinned to the rain.

Graphene nopal leaves, butterfly drones, and a grandmother-voiced AI. On Día de Muertos, Zapopan follows a marigold path to wake a sleeping river.