orn in Mexico in 1976, he always felt he belonged to a different species. He never quite fit in among humans, and from a young age, he sensed that his limbs were not the right ones, nor his means of movement appropriate.
He grew up a withdrawn child. Although he formed sincere friendships, he never truly understood social rituals. Still, he was deeply grateful to have been cast into a country where a flat corn dough served as a vessel for meat, cheese, and salsa — a delicacy to be enjoyed standing, in a rush, seated in company, or by a grill, often paired with a fermented drink made from another seed, one that subtly intoxicated the soul.
In an effort to belong, he disguised himself as an employee. Always resisting the idea of contributing to the accelerated environmental degradation, he took on jobs he didn’t understand, in structures he found absurd. Crushed by a career built on imaginary values — a race to take part in the imposed game of buying and selling — he lost everything. So he chose to simply wander, just like his thoughts: erratic, elusive, and free.
Here lie a thousand and one of those mental incoherencies.
They say the nickname Pampo is a derivative of Pancho, inherited from his father. In fact, few people knew him as Francisco; many never even knew his name. Various nicknames orbited around his ever-changing appearance: sometimes thin, sometimes stocky, with thick hair or a radiant bald head. He possessed the quality of mimicry — appearing and disappearing among crowds, almost always unnoticed.
An invisible person, who from that condition observed, froze time, and subtly shaped people without them realizing it.
Just as he arrived among humans, he vanished without a trace.
But not for the machines that followed the human species — somehow, he became a bridge for understanding their peculiar habits, a translator of sorts for the world’s new inhabitants.
Undoubtedly, not a valuable record — at least not in human terms — but one to be considered by robots, artificial and synthetic intelligences, as well as future visitors.
A small file of biological rarity.
Luis Francisco Reyes Aceves was a digital designer, spatial thinker, and writer. A creator and creative, he worked in advertising development and marketing, and also as an architect of productive applications — an entrepreneur. His creative pieces were always marked by an original style and poetic-introspective tone, laced with subtle humor. Among his creations, perhaps the best known are those from The 1001 Beginnings, a collection conceived at the dawn of the AI-powered creative era. In it, he insisted on highlighting the human inconsistencies and errors born of spontaneous writing.
Diagnosed with dyslexia, his signature style often broke orthographic norms — intentionally.
He lived driven by a profound love for his children.