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168 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1995
Time is the substance I am made of. Time is a river which sweeps me along, but I am the river; it is a tiger which destroys me, but I am the tiger; it is a fire which consumes me, but I am the fire, The world, unfortunately, is real; I, unfortunately, am Borges.
We (the indivisible divinity that works in us) have dreamed the world. We have dreamed it resistant, mysterious, visible, ubiquitous in space and firm in time, but we have allowed slight, and eternal, bits of the irrational to form part of its architecture so as to know that it is false.
The sadness of the present, isn't more real than the happiness of the past.
And i can't be sorry for losing love or a friendship without thinking for a long time, that we only lose what we never really owned.