The biographies were not relegated to those inside the conjured borders. There was a narrator whose voice had been obliterated by the politics of oblivion, the anonymous artist whose metaphors had hibernated for thousands of days and a fraction of hours. The companera who travelled incessantly to the island of contradictory landscapes, inhaled the scent of ideals and found herself once again a caricature within the fictitious island. A singer from the narrow land who explained the betrayal of memory. A poem that flaunted a reality distorted by those abhorring shades of red. There was the embodiment of loyalty who reflected us all in slanting calligraphy. In a tiny room surrounded with dilapidated books of history, the renouncement of borders seeped through the crevices in the wall to engrave a testimony that went beyond the failure and limitation of justice.