she spoke to me in a way that made black an emotion

(this is an excerpt from a book believed to be written by J.L. Borges, titled is geometry innocent, circa unknown)
My relationship was already unstable. You might think me infantile to place these problems upon my father. Parents do mould their children, to what extent no one will ever be able to gage (no one and ever is a rather omnipresent statement to put down how do I know what people will be capable of…[put down what a ridiculous verb and adverb of conjugal rights]). But then how much of my problems were just me, how does one differentiate between the problems of the father or the impious instabilities of the unborn, or the born to be, if that makes more sense to you.
My mother as you may or may not know was unknown to me. My father never spoke of her and I don’t care that he did or didn’t, but how can I say that because I would have felt utterly different if he had or I may have felt just the same, as they say (what is this ‘as they say’ where did I get it from, who are ‘they’ and why did they always say things) time will tell but time could only tell in a different dimension.
Anyway I am placing part or maybe all of the instabilities of my relationship upon my father, you my dear, whatever you are, will never know (there I go again with my adverbs of knowing all encompassing time).

My father never finished anything, its not that he couldn’t it’s that he wouldn’t. he never believed that anything could be truly finished that there was never an ending to anything: completion being a word with no meaning in the human id.
He always used (how does this vulgar word make any sense: ‘used’ it sounds as if there should be a ‘t’ instead of a ‘d’ and ‘uset’ sounds like a spit thrown across your face) to say… actually I don’t know what he always used to say even if he used to say anything at all. I do remember him talking of making a little creature in his image and talking of eating it (why does it stare at me, that word ‘it’ why does it stare). He wasn’t talking of making a child or having a baby, being the common nomenclature. No. It was as if he was talking of making one, you know out of clay you know when you are a child and you are playing with mud putting a piece there and a piece here and voilà (voilà what a strange marriage of letters it sounds like you are choking on something or if something is choking you) there is man in your own image and then you see, you see and thgsts guuo (all guttural like) and you realise or you think you realise, without even thinking there he is that man squashed between your toes.

by me
de Teliga