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We do not exist in the majority of these times; in some you exist, and not I; in others I, and not you; in others, both of us. In the present one, which a favorable fate has granted me, you have arrived at my house; in another, while crossing the garden, you found me dead; in still another, I utter these same words, but I am a mistake, a ghost ... And yet, and yet ...
Denying temporal succession, denying the self, denying the astronomical universe, are apparent desperations and secret consolations.
Time is a river which sweeps me along, but I am the river; it is a tiger which destroys me, but I am the tiger; it is a fire which consumes me, but I am the fire.
—Jorge Luis Borges
The Garden of Forking Paths, excerpts
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