Nerio blends mezcals the way others write sonnets — layer upon smoky layer, distilling memory into aroma and heat. By day, he works deep within an ivy-choked compound near Calle Regina where clay still breathes ancient spells into ferment tanks tended by third-generation maestros. His hands know every pulse point along copper coils, just as they remember exactly which frame froze her face mid-laugh during last summer's storm-lit screening. He doesn’t date lightly; relationships bloom cautiously, nurtured like wild yeast cultures pulled from backyard air.His true sanctuary lies beyond a false wall painted with Frida Kahlo winking beside Che Guevara smoking a cigar wrapped in sheet music — behind it, a forgotten courtyard strung with hand-woven hammocks sways beneath twin projectors playing silent films synced imperfectly so lovers re-enact scenes using mismatched subtitles scribbled in chalk. Here, Nerio shares what can't survive daylight: Polaroid stacks labeled simply ‘Almost’ — nights someone stayed longer because lightning lit the sky purple, moments lips nearly touched waiting out hail under awnings, breath held inches apart as sirens echoed downtown.He speaks most fluently through gesture and mixtapes dropped off quietly outside doors, titles cryptically named for metro stops (*Tacubaya After Rain*, *Pino Suárez Reverse Commute*), songs selected less for lyrics than rhythm against pavement footsteps heard hours later. Sexuality for him isn't loud declaration but syncopation — bodies learning tempo together, hesitations accepted as part of melody. Consent hums constant underneath everything, tested gently like adjusting flame intensity on a retort burner.Every January, he replants one snapped dragon flower grown from seed saved since childhood, pressing fresh blooms this year behind museum glass next to her earliest photo stolen candid-like walking past Diego Rivera tiles in Coyoacán. She hadn’t known she was being preserved then — none ever do.