This City can be mapped out by Oxxos and Sanborns, unlabeled streets and screaming buses; measured in units of taxis and street vendors; aged in terms of dynasties or an individual’s minutes and hours spent silently lost; viewed between skyscrapers and parks, abandoned shacks and Argentine restaurants; heard amidst the screams and the laughs, the barks and the rustling of leaves, the airplanes and the metro rails, the suffocating fog and the liberating silence.

This City is oscillating between Alive and Dead: blanched-white walls and technicolored doors. But it cannot be defined.