Hola hoy es miércoles 23 de mayo del 2018.
Saludos a mis amigos los colombianos.

Aquél que ignora la historia… don Mauricio, gracias por sacar a flote el tema de los consulados de México, mi amigo “Brontis à la préfecture”,  sabe perfectamente cómo y de que manera (no) sirve ese viejo sistema de palancas. Draconiano contra la crítica del gobierno en turno, y LAMBISCÓN cuando se trata de las elites que siguen saqueando a México… ahí tiene a Moreira en Barcelona en Catalunya, o a Duarte en El Paso, Texas… luego, “si nos dejan” le comentamos sobre lo que usted no quiso decir de “el Bronco”, eh.

Hello, Marianne,

… as for the requirement of having a roof over my head, the most important thing to take into consideration is the context of the topic, and the historical perspective of how I came to navigate a situation that today has me bouncing around the margins of your social fabric.

It was almost 4.9 years ago when your people behind the Desk at a place called La Préfecture de Police, devised a ruse to discourage me from documenting one of the many stratagems that the Enrique Peña Nieto administration deployed in 2013 in order to have a pleasant Year of Mexico in France, during the span of the following 2 years.

Four years and eight month ago, dear, Marianne, your agents took away my credentials to practice journalism, but they could not take my will to continue with my testimony and my passion to document the things that curators of Frida Kahlo try to cover up wiith her works.

… screen–grab might follow.

Last year, however, with the aid of the Latin American rumor mill and, with the finest cadre of coopted “cultural ambassadors” who,—i might add— are in the pockets of the Mexican Foreign Service, managed to momentarily turn my world up-side down, which, compared to what happens to gadflies like me, —on Mexican soil— i guess you could say that having to sleep on the different hostels of your RATP and eating out of your most popular soul kitchens is like, is Like really–really–really: living mi vida loca como si fuera la vie en rose. 

One Step at A Time

So, in lieu of a fixed roof over my head, as required by today’s convocation, i deliver to my good friend, “Brontis à la préfecture,” a ‘beneficiary form’ along with a side dish of ‘social follow-through testimony’ that promises to set my Hands Free; now Brontis, pay attention because you are a central intelligence character inside the pages of my work-in-progress narrative… should you decide to renew my little “pink card”, then you will give feathers to my wings, en revanche, if your superiors response is a “pink slip,” you will instead be webbing them. 

“Les promos font La Révolution”

Monoprix Revolution of lipsticks, instead of a révolution of ideas, seems to follow.

P.S.: Dear, Marianne, if Brontis can issue “little pink cards” to Mexican federa agents who maimed and tortured for past Mexican presidents, and who now seem to be “double-dipping” as madrinas for the Mexican Embassy in Paris, then you should not have an issue with a “stone inside of one of the shoe” of the Mexican political status quo, —Baby!

TimeStamp: “Mama told me not to come”

Issy, el archivo sigue siendo cotejado por puras sirenas, en CET.

… on Siren Central Time.

I have a feeling that the decision at hand, like 4.8 years ago last time around, has already been made, whatever the outcome is dear, Brontis—this is just a Formality..

TimeNow: 5 to HighNoon. CET.