He entered the hotel wanting to check in. Without documents, without luggage, without proof. His money was the only thing of value. He went up to his room. He turned over the bed and his distant, blurry memories. A tear kept him company, along with the six bullets in his revolver. He would only need one. That man left the hotel; without memory, without a past, without existence.
Photography by José Alberto Díaz Ruiz // Rev/Scan: Páramo
Monterrey, Mexico, 1995. Musician and writer in the making. He writes short stories and brief poetry. He has collaborated with literary magazines such as Papeles de la Mancuspia. Creator of Ácido Verbal.