Phat Phucking Phantasmagoria — that’s what it felt like standing in front of a Barragán wall: a flat pink so loud it could slap a saint sober. Geometry as gospel, colour as a controlled psychedelic, every shape whispering discipline and delirium in the same breath. It wasn’t architecture, it was a slow hallucination — light slicing through space like a surgeon, silence painted lemon, magenta, cobalt. Reprogrammed by shadow portals for the emotionally constipated. Amen. Saludar al Jefe.