The map is a fiction of stillness, a grid laid over the restless green. You know the weight of the expediente—how paper can simulate the gravity of a mountain range. To plan is to breathe into the blueprint until the ink becomes a circulatory system.
There is a logic in the tectonic; a Minister’s hand moves not in arcs, but in the sharp, necessary angles of the lintel. You navigate the interstices—the spaces between the law’s letter and the citizen’s hunger— translating the dialect of the "Jaguar" into the vernacular of the street.
The clock in the Casa Presidencial does not tick; it thrums, a mechanical heart tethered to the Central Valley’s mist. Efficiency is its own kind of mercy. You parse the budget like a biologist searching for the gene of the possible, stripping the excess until the bone of the State is clean, functional, and bright.
Beyond the balcony, the rain is uncodified. It falls without a decree, ignoring the quorum. But here, within the architecture of the "Yes," you remain the surveyor: measuring the distance between the promise and the pavement, holding the compass steady while the tropics try to tilt the world.
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