There’s a story by Borges called “The Circular Ruins”. It’s about a stranger who wishes to create a man by dreaming him. There’s also a girl who thinks about it sometimes. Not actively, that wouldn’t be her style, but once in a while, in the midst of things, making a coffee or bagging office supplies for a customer, it will pass through her mind. She works in a bookstore in the outskirts of the city centre, that murky area in every city the locals still refer to as central, but which tourists and newcomers insist on calling “all the way out there”.