Stretched wide by gigantic visions, bright from the fire’s glare from that course of judgments, which never destroy him,- are his eyes, gazing beneath thick brows. And already in his inmost self words are building up again, not his own(for what would his amount to and how benignly they’d go to waste) but other, hard ones: chunks of iron, stones, which he must melt down like a...
his Pandora station is getting it done.
My undertaking is not difficult, essentially. I should only have to be immortal...– Jorge Luis Borges