The sounds of Flores con Historias end up feeling like an eerie procession, a calm cacophony to horror. The horror of stories left untold and repressed, pierced down and pinned under buckets of pain and intentional misery. And yet despite the timeline in front of me, nothing has changed. In my own country a 50 year tide is threatened to be overturned by a decision that feels progressively powerless to counteract in time. Stories like this are a reminder to fight, for the garden of lively flowers we help live on, hopefully to never see reaped.

Yet still continuously discomforting how the voices of men compound, breaking down so clearly visceral lived experiences like this. "Not nuanced." "Not of sufficient interest". "So clearly explicit and lacking in subtlety." There is not a shred of empathy in those words, there is no understanding of rights and life there is only an impulse to eye roll at stories that do not affect them. Much better to live in detached houses away from the world, letting the violation continue, refuse the memoir for the easier to consume, to play with the world in centrist "high art" but seek nothing of what's real. I am not surprised, but it will forever be continuously torturous. Eventually they will become discarded wastelands, but as of now they make the gripping darkness of these stories more apparent. We have to keep striving to give these flowers light. For a brighter future. Salud.