"I picked up the pen chained to the register stand, dipped it in the brass inkwell, and then, as I leaned over the open book, there occurred the first of the many surprises the night would have in store for me – my name, Jorge Luis Borges, had already been written there, and the ink was not yet dry.
'I thought you'd already gone upstairs,' the owner said to me. Then he looked at me more closely and corrected himself: 'Oh, I beg your pardon, sir. You look so much like the other gentleman, but you are younger.'
'What room is he in?' I asked.
'He asked for Room 19,' came the reply.
It was as I had feared.
I dropped the pen and hurried up the stairs … I tried the door; it opened at my touch. The overhead light still burned. In the pitiless light, I came face to face with myself. There, in the narrow iron bed – older, withered, and very pale – lay I, on my back, my eyes turned up vacantly toward the high plaster moldings of the ceiling. Then I heard the voice. It was not exactly my own; it was the one I often hear in my recordings, unpleasant and without modulation.
'How odd,' it was saying, 'we are two yet we are one ...'
-Jorge Luis Borges. "August 25, 1983".