The useless dawn finds me in a deserted streetcorner; I have outlived

the night.

Nights are proud waves: darkblue topheavy waves laden with all

hues of deep spoil, laden with things unlikely and desirable.

Nights have a habit of mysterious gifts and refusals, of things half

given away, half withheld, of joys with a dark hemisphere.

Nights act that way, I tell you.

The surge, that night, left me the customary shreds and odd ends:

some hated friends to chat with, music for dreams, and the

smoking of bitter ashes. The things my hungry heart has no

use for.

The big wave brought you.


We talked and you have forgotten the words.


by Jorge Luis Borges