We were born somewhere else. The ever-hovering mist of the Tepeyacac hill paints a humid film on our faces. Moving branches reflect off the walls of the canyon. Purple lights flicker dimly through the jungle. Letters grow into a word as we approach, leaving behind the animals’ gasps and rustling grass. HOTEL. Hasty sparkles beneath its heavy door. We glimpse through the keyhole. An old ballroom. Young dancers, beautiful in their clumsiness, yet immortal in their grandeur. Read more on Last.fm