A punk night, a body with memory, and a room that wakes up like a domestic crime scene. Between bleach, irony, and a burrito-flavored mate, a story about falling apart without losing the joke.

An artist says that without the eye there’s no angle, and without the angle, no rainbow. From that line unfolds a reflection on how seeing is a form of participation — how each gaze, with its own language, alters what it observes. A text about the moment before the idea, when something begins to exist without a name yet.