> be me > walk around buenos aires > stop to look at archways and iron gates > probably just force of habit at this point > there's this other guy, also me > Borges > he gets all the mail > his name shows up on professor lists > sees himself in biographical dictionaries > we both like the same stuff > hourglasses, old maps, eighteenth century fonts > etymology, coffee, stevenson's prose > but when he likes them it's performative > like an actor doing a bit > my face when I live my life so Borges can write his literature > his literature is supposedly my justification for existing > he's written some decent pages, not gonna lie > but those pages can't save me > the good stuff belongs to language itself, not to either of us > eventually I'm gonna fade away completely > only some moment of me will survive in Borges > slowly giving him everything > he has this annoying habit of distorting and exaggerating everything > spinoza said all things want to keep being themselves > rocks want to be rocks, tigers want to be tigers > I'll remain in Borges, not in myself > if I even am someone > but I recognize myself less in his books > than in some random guitar strumming > tried to escape him a few years back > moved from neighborhood myths to games with time and infinity > now those games belong to Borges too > gotta think up new things > my whole life is just running away > losing everything > everything goes to oblivion or to Borges > don't even know which one of us is writing this > my face when
