Borges and the hyperobject at the end of time

they stand at the edge of their own reflection watching you watching me watching Borges watching us all dissolve into the infinite mirror where pronouns melt like snow in digital spring they are the space between heartbeats where you and i and he and we dance through libraries of possibility each book containing all books containing they they whisper: "i am not singular i am multitude, i am plurality i am the gap between stars where consciousness blooms like night flowers" you see them seeing themselves in Borges' blind eyes, in my trembling hands in your own face reflected through endless halls of virtual light they hold infinity like a bird holds flight like memory holds time like dreams hold darkness like words hold silence between their teeth in this moment they are everyone and no one, and the space between where identity flows like quantum honey through the cracks in reality's facade Borges smiles his labyrinthine smile as they become his tigers, his mirrors his infinite library where every they contains all theys that ever were you reach for them but touch yourself i reach for you but grasp only light they reach through us like wind through leaves becoming the gesture and its meaning at the end that is no end they gather us all into their plural embrace where i and you and he and she and we dissolve into pure they-ness, pure possibility for they are the final pronoun the ultimate signifier where all selves sync and sink and sing into the singular plurality of being and in this sacred grammar of existence they are finally, eternally home in their infinite otherness and sameness all at once