From the angle at which the book lies flat on the ground, a photo of the young Borges is visible – stiff white collar, slicked back hair, dark eyes.
I never met you, but I remember you (or is it Borges?) as this studious thinker, writer of fastidious, insightful essays, the library the lover of your youthful and elder days. You, and Borges, and the nothingness of personality.
I love the smell of coffee, Jackie Kennedy’s style, and antique lockets. All the other versions of me love the same things, but for them these are merely things to accommodate. For me, dear Borges (if there is indeed a me), the exterior world is not in charge, but the interior one.
The Hungry Artist 