Daniel Angulo
Daniel Angulo doesn't write biographies—he sweats them out in ink and drypoint. Born in the electric delirium of Barranquilla, he grew up among lemon trees and oil paint tubes, educated on the eroded stage walls of the theater and the flames of the university. His life sounds like a drunken Sartre novel—half Hamlet, half Carnival, all existential rock 'n' roll.
A self-proclaimed “professor of chaos,” Angulo has wielded:
• Acrylics like Molotovs
• Engraving tools like surgical steel
• Poetry like a switchblade dipped in Nietzsche and rum
KAOS 3 is his first and final confession—a grimoire where art, lust, and ruin root together like hungry vines.
He currently lives where the nymphs permit—when they’re not hiding his mail.
1. Angulo’s first draft included Page 1, but the trees ate it.
2. Author’s last verified coordinates: A stool at ‘La Ninfa Ebria’ (Barranquilla), arguing with a taxidermied caiman about magical realism. His keffiyeh was sighted in a Bogotá pawnshop, wrapped around a first edition of Cien Años de Soledad with marginalia in dragon’s blood ink. Proceed with caution.
