And now I will cease this dissembling. I remember what happened when I was here. I am, in fact, Borges. Thirty years have passed and I am not blind or old or an Argentine, but I am he. The woman I wrote of then is here again too; I still have not touched her golden hair. Sometimes, at night, I wish for the cycle to bring me home again to the rose-colored earth of Buenos Aires. During those moments I forget not only that I am already there, but also that I am already home.
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