In Honduras finding decaying buildings
is like looking for a McDonalds anywhere else in the world.
Except the decaying involves the people still living inside of them.
my decaying love, my dying love…
Take a stroll on its streets late at night,
this town is just another prostitute with a different name.
[Nothing] makes sense anymore.
Sometimes, she dresses up at night.
No one will see her, notice her but she goes on, looking through the night. All the prostitutes, the muggers, the junkies. They seem to be fond of her, at night, when no one sees her.
In daylight, [she] is dirty, filthy in fact. [She] smells rotten and fried. But at night, she wears her best brightly and tantalizing lights.
I sometimes called her Tegucigalpa.