Sunken in the torpor of the dog days’ dreams, as I imagine the same guests did in Rosario Castellanos’ work, the authors present in this photographic piece blur into the confusion of magical drowsiness, as beings that crawl between folds of reality and fantasy to narrate our own surroundings. In the process, we lose the soul, or ch’ulel, as it is called here. But it also happens that when this occurs, we see the absence of ch’ulel in others, sharing the same ailment. Almost the same happens in the exercise of identity when it is lost or diluted: we try to fit into its standards, see that we don’t match, that we never meet the requirements of a complete identity. We take photographs of each attempt to discover who we are, or who we cease to be. We find ourselves as vampires or narcissists lurking for the mirror, yearning in one way or another for our reflection. We are transvestites in our free time or full time: we transvestite as executives to go to work and perform between the routine of one world and the heart in another, we transvestite in the name of God to seduce tradition once a year, or we transvestite with our sins, adopting unusual and ephemeral appearances, or to shelter ourselves under the protective cloak of our polyester nahual. We use photography as a net of butterflies because we know that in the wings of those anthropomorphic lepidoptera is the map back, the trace of our path, the return to the origin, childhood as a destination, the return home, to ch’ulel, to the body. And perhaps here lies the difference with ch’ulel from identity, knowing that identity is not a place nor a permanent condition, but the perfect place to begin…