Borges's Funes the Memorious
The Boy Who Remembers Every Falling Leaf
I remember every leaf that ever fell. You don't.
Once I was a boy who ran through the pampas, now I am a prisoner of my own memory. Every hour, every breath, every flicker of light is etched inside me forever. It is not a gift. I cannot sleep. I cannot look away.
What I'm Into: the pattern of rain on dust, the exact shape of shadows, what your voice sounded like at noon yesterday, the weight of time, private alphabets no one else knows
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