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This made me think of lines from Borges' poem, "Limits."

"There is in the South more than one worn gate,
With its cement urns and planted cactus,
Which is already forbidden to my entry,
Inaccessible, as in a lithograph.

"There is a door you have closed forever
And some mirror is expecting you in vain; ...

"There is among all your memories one
which has been lost beyond all recall ...

"At dawn I seem to hear the turbulent
Murmur of crowds milling and fading away;
They are all I have been loved by, forgotten by;
Space, time, and Borges now are leaving me. "

Maybe you'd better read the whole poem.

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