All the dust we raised

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Heisenberg And once again away he goes, into the dark water.

Bohr Before we can lay our hands on anything, our life’s over.



Heisenberg
Before we can glimpse who or what we are, we are gone and laid to dust.

Bohr Settled among all the dust we raised.

Margrethe And sooner or later there will come a time when all our children and laid to dust, and all our children’s children.

Bohr When no more decisions, great or small, are ever made again. When there’s no more uncertainty, because there’s no more knowledge.

Margrethe And when all our eyes are closed, when even the ghosts have gone, what will be left of our beloved world? Our ruined and dishonored and beloved world?

Heisenberg But in the meanwhile, in this most precious meanwhile, there it is. The trees in Facelled Park. Gammertingen and Biberach and Mindelheim. Our children and our children’s children. Preserved, just possibly, by that one short moment in Copenhagen. By some event that will never quite be located or defined. By that final core of uncertainty at the heart of things.

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