I let Jorge Luis Borges free in my head and he carefully inspected each of the tiny cogs that operate the vast machine housed within. He prodded at some of the central conceptual motors, causing everything to grind to a halt or reverse for long moments.
Later that day, I released Jasper Fforde into my mind, and immediately I forgot that it was a machine. He shifted time and space in similar ways as Borges had, but he conjured such fantasies that I hardly cared to probe their incongruities.
When my mind was alone again, vestiges of timelessness hung about.
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