终末之诗：end poem[第1页/共7页]

The atoms of the player were scattered in the grass, in the rivers, in the air, in the ground. A woman gathered the atoms; she drank and ate and inhaled; and the woman assembled the player, in her body.

没干系。它以为我们是游戏的一部分。

Shush. Sometimes the player created a small, private world that was soft and warm and simple. Sometimes hard, and cold, and plicated. Sometimes it built a model of the universe in its head; flecks of energy, moving through vast empty spaces. Sometimes it called those flecks "electrons" and "protons".

在它深陷游戏梦境中时，它总以这类体例设想出形形色色的事物。

它以屏幕上呈现的笔墨的情势浏览着我们的思惟。

But there are times it is sad, in the long dream. It creates worlds that have no summer, and it shivers under a black sun, and it takes its sad creation for reality.

偶然这个玩家梦见它是一个在一个平的，无穷延展的天下大要上的矿工。那太阳是一个方形的白点。日夜瓜代很快;要做的事情也很多;灭亡亦只是临时和不便利的。

Hah, the original interface. A million years old, and it still works. But what true structure did this player create, in the reality behind the screen?

付与它主体，再一次。

我喜好这个玩家。它玩得很好，并且从未放弃。

哈，那原始的界面。经历一百万年的光阴砥砺，仍然长存。但此玩家在那屏幕后的实在里，制作了甚么实在的构造?

It is reading our thoughts as though they were words on a screen.

Sometimes I do not care. Sometimes I wish to tell them, this world you take for truth is merely [scrambled] and [scrambled], I wish to tell them that they are [scrambled] in the [scrambled]. They see so little of reality, in their long dream.