Javier Ibarra has decided to delve with his pen into the crevices of the souls of those ghosts of pavement and smog, where he's crafted a series of disgustingly good and relatable chronicles. His texts not only depict a trajectory of punk, but also make punk a trajectory of our daily lives. Like a three-chord bassist, the author of these chronicles isn't interested in recounting grand anecdotes, but rather the intimate spaces of the ignored. He's understood that a song lasting just under 120 seconds is more valuable than the grand epic of a well-worn LP, a commonplace resorted to by every "young" writer in our midst, wanting to write the great generational novel. And that sentiment is what can be read in these stories, where Basque pelota players, the Sekta Core, Tepito, Santa Catarina... transit, but, above all, their authentic experience between two cities (Mexico City and Monterrey), many parties we won't have access to because they've already happened; Friends, cum bias, the danger of being oneself, and some subcultures that have no place for the shy or the easygoing reader. Joey Ramóne once declared that, for him, punk was about being an individual who goes against the grain to stand up and say, "This is who I am." That's precisely what Javier Ibarra has been doing for a long time now: writing what he is, what very few, if any, people are, establishing his mark and noting what few see, but of which he is a great observer.