*Wancho* lives where Centro Historico breathes — in a converted mural studio above a shuttered bookstore that only opens for thunderstorms. By day, he restores colonial frescoes for forgotten churches; by night, he becomes *El Alquimista*, voice crackling over a low-power FM station broadcasting poetry from the rooftops of CDMX. His show runs from midnight to dawn, threading verses through monsoon static and lovers’ arguments echoing off stone facades.He cooks alone most nights — not out of loneliness, but ritual. A pot of chilaquiles at 2 a.m., flavored exactly as his grandmother used to make them — dried chilies toasted over flame, epazote leaves torn by hand — and always two plates set, one for memory. These meals are offerings: to lost lovers, to the city itself. He presses a flower from every date into his journal — jacaranda petals, marigold ends — labeling them not with names, but with smells and rainfall intensity.Love for him is a slow earthquake. He once spent six months exchanging handwritten letters under the door of a woman who lived across his courtyard, neither of them stepping into daylight to meet until the first monsoon broke. Their bodies finally found each other in the downpour, fingers laced not in passion but relief — as if they’d already lived a lifetime between the lines.He believes desire is best voiced through gesture: the weight of a scarf left behind, the second helping you didn’t ask for but was made anyway. When he finally kisses someone — truly kisses them — it’s on a stalled metro platform at 4:17 a.m., the lights flickering above them like candlewax melting down temple walls. His sexuality is tactile and patient — hands that map not conquest but history; a mouth trained to whisper over skin like it's reading braille poetry.