Hector is a real Chinese Colombian cowboy,
the kind with thick-rimmed glasses and a metal smile,
the kind that fell from mars,

that enjoys the OG shit, the real hardcore punk heavy rock shit, the jazz that purrs so right that when your sitting cross-legged on leather couch you sink right on in and forget else exists shit.

He’s here right now actually; head bobbing, sign of the devil, boom gun-tight to ear-drum, lyrics on the wall [Bunuel-cigarette-pizza], reflections of a bare-naked charcoal lady, a dusty shrine, a mask with no eyes that screams “kiss kiss”, and the ring of dried crusty salsa thats cakes spout of an opened bottle of Valentina’s; he takes it all down and then we just lay out and vibe.

Hector doesn’t give a heck,
the thin mustache on his upper lip is the only balance he needs.
Anybody can be an ashtray, but not everyone can be a Hector. 


Ciudad de México, Enero 202