stefan michael

The pace was immediately breathtaking; fear, pathos, reasoning with inevitability, the mind reels at the possibilites, the horror, the sad ordinariness of it all - yes, we are all the same.

I am perplexed; I don't know if I just read a Borges story (one written by Borges) or a story about Borges imagined by someone imagining being Borges or if I just wrote this story and imagined reading it in a circular library.

The scene of standing between the two blind men reminds me of a Borgesian image: "a candle placed between facing mirrors." But what on earth do I mean by Borgesian?