Neuquén

In the lost corners of Neuquén, where time seems to stand still, Eleanor whispers mysterious words that echo in the wind like a gentle pulse.

“No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.” ¹

she says, but her words sound like the whirring of a distant, alien melody in a universe of upturned wormholes.

I wander through the streets that pulsate like veins in the city, accompanied by shadows that whisper and laugh in the corners without ever revealing their true form. Here, in Neuquén, every street corner is a labyrinth, every encounter a mystery.

Eleanor appears again, this time as an echo in a puddle that reflects the sky, but in colors that are not of this world. Her reflection dances, and her words mingle with the pulse of the city, a rhythm that is both familiar and completely alien.

In this moment, lost in Neuquén, I find a truth that only makes sense here, in a space where words dance and thoughts fly free, unbound by the tyranny of the ordinary.