last night, circa Borges
Deeds which populate the dimensions of space and which reach their end when someone dies may cause us wonderment; but one thing, or an infinite number of things, dies in every final agony, unless there is a universal memory as the theosophists have conjectured. In time there was a day that extinguished the last eyes to see Christ; the battle of Junin and the love of Helen died with the death of one man. What will die with me when I die, what pathetic or fragile image will be lost to the world? The startled rapture in his gaze, the image of a saxaphonist swathed in blue light in some hermetic corner of the club, a triangle of still morning light through the curtains?
(borges won't mind, he does it all the time)