Stay there, without moving, just a moment, a tiny moment, in this region of the ancient world, this space that the memories live and suddenly I can not cross, where a hand that does is not mine erases the tears on my cheeks, and made his only stop warm caress. Stay there a moment, motionless, without being able to cross the world, while all await hanging my gesture me to put on the surface glaucous and vertical table, strings of words, the more complex they , thus they will be sure to have seized in the course of hours.
And suddenly a moment, very short I'm sure my hand instead of getting up, keep still, I'm standing, and my face is inches away from the green surface, I see it, the green table, already swept large traces decentered chalk dust, that hand gestures have erased the drawing, have drawn deleting them, one and one is true and both statements reciprocal look in the mirror game, referring constantly without one end to another. Between the two, I'll stay a moment, not because I decided there was nothing else to do, he should admit that there was, it turns out that there was such a thickness of dreams, a dream so resistant texture that I could not cross it. Frame
fine memories.
She holds a moment in this space where I could believe it possible to find other times, other places. I do not know where they disappeared. I thought those moments ∞ s, and they disappeared I know not where. Where the race days that drift into the night has brought in its wake. But the fabric of very fine leaves happy memories does not cross easily. One moment I stay in it, as in the wire very fine and silky and very tough as gossamer memories, he must decide ... ...
for my hand finally write the table, screeching in the very light of chalk, a few minimal parts would loosen and fall silently on the floor, the title, they expect to note, I meaning they hold, even in the very area outside this world where I am then suspended at my hand in the gesture hung a moment in which it will record The Plurality of Worlds David Lewis.
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