So i did, not coincidentally, reread Borges` "The Zahir" today. A short story of which i have fond memories from when i was sixteen. Don`t we all wish that we could be sixteen, in love, and telling girls that they were our Zahirs? Well, i got lucky in that respect. Or intensely unlucky, somewhat dependent on how you view it, since my Zahir was a girl and not an object. (My madness though is a tool of my own and societys devising, i shan`t lay that at her feet. Though it of course managed to mangle some aspects and beautify other aspects of the entire sordid tale.)
Ah well, Bill the Cat still loves you.
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