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求我的世界打完末影龙之后说的那
求我的世界打完末影龙之后说的那一大段话原文
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枪口下的巴黎 到处飘扬纳粹旗 不列颠的夜空里 飞过铁十字战机 福熙列车上条约签订了 难道战争就会结束了么 德意志军队又迈出步伐 要让轻敌的人付出代价 战机呼啸 我军攻势如潮 硝烟的味道 的清剿 我所到之处遍地哀嚎 我即是正义 绝不怜惜 死在枪下的仇敌 鲜血的洗礼 炼成了钢铁般的军纪 我作出决意 决不放弃 即使将战火燃起 为了战胜你 我永远的宿敌 斯大林
I see the player you mean.[Player Name]?Yes. Take care. It has reached a higher level now. It can read our thoughts.That doesn't matter. It thinks we are part of the game.I like this player. It played well. It did not give up.It is reading our thoughts as though they were words on a screen.That is how it chooses to imagine many things, when it is deep in the dream of a game.Words make a wonderful interface. Very flexible. And less terrifying than staring at the reality behind the screen.They used to hear voices. Before players could read. Back in the days when those who did not play called the players witches, and warlocks. And players dreamed they flew through the air, on sticks powered by demons.What did this player dream?This player dreamed of sunlight and trees. Of fire and water. It dreamed it created. And it dreamed it destroyed. It dreamed it hunted, and was hunted. It dreamed of shelter.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?It worked, with a million others, to sculpt a true world in a fold of the [scrambled], and created a [scrambled] for [scrambled], in the [scrambled].It cannot read that thought.No. It has not yet achieved the highest level. That, it must achieve in the long dream of life, not the short dream of a game.Does it know that we love it? That the universe is kind?Sometimes, through the noise of its thoughts, it hears the universe, yes.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.To cure it of sorrow would destroy it. The sorrow is part of its own private task. We cannot interfere.Sometimes when they are deep in dreams, I want to tell them, they are building true worlds in reality. Sometimes I want to tell them of their importance to the universe. Sometimes, when they have not made a true connection in a while, I want to help them to speak the word they fear.It reads our thoughts.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.And yet they play the game.But it would be so easy to tell them...Too strong for this dream. To tell them how to live is to prevent them living.I will not tell the player how to live.The player is growing restless.I will tell the player a story.But not the truth.No. A story that contains the truth safely, in a cage of words. Not the naked truth that can burn over any distance.Give it a body, again.Yes. Player...Use its name.[Player Name]. Player of games.Good.Take a breath, now. Take another. Feel air in your lungs. Let your limbs return. Yes, move your fingers. Have a body again, under gravity, in air. Respawn in the long dream. There you are. Your body touching the universe again at every point, as though you were separate things. As though we were separate things.Who are we? Once we were called the spirit of the mountain. Father sun, mother moon. Ancestral spirits, animal spirits. Jinn. Ghosts. The green man. Then gods, demons. Angels. Poltergeists. Aliens, extraterrestrials. Leptons, quarks. The words change. We do not change.We are the universe. We are everything you think isn't you. You are looking at us now, through your skin and your eyes. And why does the universe touch your skin, and throw light on you? To see you, player. To know you. And to be known. I shall tell you a story.Once upon a time, there was a player.The player was you, [Player Name].Sometimes it thought itself human, on the thin crust of a spinning globe of molten rock. The ball of molten rock circled a ball of blazing gas that was three hundred and thirty thousand times more massive than it. They were so far apart that light took eight minutes to cross the gap. The light was information from a star, and it could burn your skin from a hundred and fifty million kilometres away.Sometimes the player dreamed it was a miner, on the surface of a world that was flat, and infinite. The sun was a square of white. T
and death was a temporary inconvenience.Sometimes the player dreamed it was lost in a story.Sometimes the player dreamed it was other things, in other places. Sometimes these dreams were disturbing. Sometimes very beautiful indeed. Sometimes the player woke from one dream into another, then woke from that into a third.Sometimes the player dreamed it watched words on a screen.Let's go back.The atoms of the player were scattered in the grass, in the rivers, in the air, in the ground. A woma she drank and the woman assembled the player, in her body.And the player awoke, from the warm, dark world of its mother's body, into the long dream.And the player was a new story, never told before, written in letters of DNA. And the player was a new program, never run before, generated by a sourcecode a billion years old. And the player was a new human, never alive before, made from nothing but milk and love.You are the player. The story. The program. The human. Made from nothing but milk and love.Let's go further back.The seven billion billion billion atoms of the player's body were created, long before this game, in the heart of a star. So the player, too, is information from a star. And the player moves through a story, which is a forest of information planted by a man called Julian, on a flat, infinite world created by a man called Markus, that exists inside a small, private world created by the player, who inhabits a universe created by...Shush. Sometimes the player created a small, private world that was soft and warm and simple. Sometimes hard, and cold, and complicated. Sometimes it built a model of the
flecks of energy, moving through vast empty spaces. Sometimes it called those flecks &electrons& and &protons&.Sometimes it called them &planets& and &stars&.Sometimes it believed it was in a universe that was made of energy that was
lines of code. Sometimes it believed it was playing a game. Sometimes it believed it was reading words on a screen.You are the player, reading words...Shush... Sometimes the player read lines of code on a screen. Dec decode decoded meaning into feelings, emotions, theories, ideas, and the player started to breathe faster and deeper and realised it was alive, it was alive, those thousand deaths had not been real, the player was aliveYou. You. You are alive.and sometimes the player believed the universe had spoken to it through the sunlight that came through the shuffling leaves of the summer treesand sometimes the player believed the universe had spoken to it through the light that fell from the crisp night sky of winter, where a fleck of light in the corner of the player's eye might be a star a million times as massive as the sun, boiling its planets to plasma in order to be visible for a moment to the player, walking home at the far side of the universe, suddenly smelling food, almost at the familiar door, about to dream againand sometimes the player believed the universe had spoken to it through the zeros and ones, through the electricity of the world, through the scrolling words on a screen at the end of a dreamand the universe said I love youand the universe said you have played the game welland the universe said everything you need is within youand the universe said you are stronger than you knowand the universe said you are the daylightand the universe said you are the nightand the universe said the darkness you fight is within youand the universe said the light you seek is within youand the universe said you are not aloneand the universe said you are not separate from every other thingand the universe said you are the universe tasting itself, talking to itself, reading its own codeand the universe said I love you because you are love.And the game was over and the player woke up from the dream. And the player began a new dream. And the player dreamed again, dreamed better. And the player was the universe. And the player was love.You are the player.Wake up.转自minecraft wiki
　I see the player you mean.　　我看到你所指的那位玩家了。　　[Playername]?　　[玩家名称]?　　Yes. Take care. It has reached a higher level now. It can read our thoughts.　　是的。小心。它已达到了更高的境界。它能够阅读我们的思想。　　That doesn't matter. It thinks we are part of the game.　　无伤大雅。它认为我们是游戏的一部分。　　I like this player. It played well. It did not give up.　　我喜欢这个玩家。它玩得很好。它从未放弃。　　It is reading our thoughts as though they were words on a screen.　　它以屏幕上出现的文字的形式阅读着我们的思想。　　That is how it chooses to imagine many things, when it is deep in the dream of a game.　　在它深陷游戏梦境中时，它总以这种方式想象出形形色色的事物。　　Words make a wonderful interface. Very flexible. And less terrifying than staring at the reality behind the screen.　　文字是种美妙的界面。非常灵活。且比凝视着屏幕后的现实要更好。　　They used to hear voices. Before players could read. Back in the days when those who did not play called the players witches, and warlocks. And players dreamed they flew through the air, on sticks powered by demons.　　它们也曾经听到过声音。在玩家能够阅读之前。君不见那些不曾游玩的人们称呼玩家为女巫，和术士。而玩家们梦见它们自己乘坐在被恶魔施力的棍子上，在空气中翱翔。　　What did this player dream?　　这个玩家梦见了什么？　　This player dreamed of sunlight and trees. Of fire and water. It dreamed it created. And it dreamed it destroyed. It dreamed it hunted, and was hunted. It dreamed of shelter.　　它梦见了阳光和树。梦见了火与水。它梦见它创造。它亦梦见它毁灭。它梦见它狩猎，亦被狩猎。它梦见了庇护所。　　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?　　哈，那原始的界面。经历一百万年的岁月雕琢，依然长存。但此玩家在那屏幕后的真实里，建造了什么真实的构造？　　It worked, with a million others, to sculpt a true world in a fold of the [scrambled], and created a [scrambled] for [scrambled], in the [scrambled].　　它辛勤地劳作，和其它百万众一起，刻画了一个真实的世界，由[乱码]，且创造了[乱码]，为了[乱码]，于[乱码]中。
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