Things by Jorge Luis Borges My walking-stick, small change, key-ring,
The docile lock and the belated
Notes my few days left will grant
No time to read, the cards, the table,
A book, in its pages, that pressed
Violet, the leavings of an afternoon
Doubtless unforgettable, forgotten,
The reddened mirror facing to the west
Where burns illusory dawn. Many things,
Files, sills, atlases, wine-glasses, nails,
Which serve us, like unspeaking slaves,
So blind and so mysteriously secret!
They’ll long outlast our oblivion;
And never know that we are gone. Art by Monica Garwood
Recommended listening: Dog Days Are Over - Florence + The Machine
Saturday Night - Devendra Banhart
Links of the Day: Why India should explore the ocean | Nayantara Jain Hikaru Dorodango/Shiny Dumpling Mornings With My Father Type in the Wild "I couldn’t meet Enid Blyton, but meeting her daughter was just as exciting"