[...] The ruins of the sanctuary of the god of fire were destroyed by fire. On a dawn without birds, the magician saw the concentric fire sweeping against the walls. For a moment, he thought of seeking refuge in the waters, but then he understood that death had come to crown his old age and absolve him of his labors. He walked against the tattered flames. These did not bite his flesh; they caressed him and flooded him with neither heat nor combustion. With relief, with humiliation, with terror, he understood that he too was an appearance, that another was dreaming him.
— Jorge Luis Borges, "Las ruinas circulares," 1940
Fuegos, 2017—2018
