Music, states of happiness, mythology, faces belabored by time, certain twilights and certain places try to tell us something, or have said something we should not have missed, or are about to say something; this imminence of a revelation which does not occur is, perhaps, the aesthetic phenomenon. There are calendars, maps, encylopedias, dictionaries. This is a central fact of my existence. And metaphors, metaphysics, mathematics. Buenos Aires is my home and muse.
Jorge Luis Borges, again.
Bach, Mozart, and Beethoven. Also, the sound of a guitar strummed by someone whose thoughts are far away. And wind chimes, whistling, cathedral bells, drunken melodies with forgotten words, lullabyes.
Every book ever written. And Don Quixote. The Thousand and One Nights. The Divine Comedy. Sartor Resartus.