Something about the rooftop: the concrete tiles wrought to a state of irreparable collapse, the labyrinth of mouldering cloisters giving impression of the Malebolgian citadels if not for the banks of orange and purple motives incumbent of the Southern Mexican folk tradition; the cozy, cavernous enclosures housing the post-colonial ceramics, those hypnotizing curves of the blues, the oranges, the yellows surveying the black nothingness, the Eastern wall then yielding to the temple canopies and those obsequious edifices decked in ecclesiastic insignia accompanied by the tolling, rolling, throbbing, resounding of bells counterpoising the intimidating power grid; the metal wire baskets of gigantic succulent decorum and then the shriveled growth of twigs, stems, grasses and climbers - the parasitic aridity pestering among the fissures; the synthesis of the early-period Juan Miro rusticity with the decaying Piranesi antiquity, the cloth lines of torn rags and stockings sporadically writhing to the unceasing Johnny Cash vocals from the alley to the adjoining West, the chrome-plated cylinder harnessing the solar rays to heat the chlorine channeling through the overcapacitated pipe conduit, the mysterious section of unfinished masonry along the Southern edge, and to the North, the chilling barbwire separating the fortress from the haunting neighboring quarters leading to the lower chambers through the deep pit, where, midst the fumes and the heavy fungal coat, the purificatory apparatus opens to the bleary abyss consummated underneath the savage forest.

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