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in fact happens are our notes or our recordings or our films and nothing more, even in that infinite perfecting of repetition we will have lost the time in which those events actually took place (even if it were only the time it took to note them down) and while we try to relive it or reproduce it or make it come back and prevent it becoming the past, another different time will be happening, and in that other time we will doubtless not be together, we will pick up no phones, we will not dare to do anything, unable to prevent any crime or death (on the other hand, we won't commit any or cause any) because, in our morbid attempt to prevent time from ending, to cause what is over to return, we will be letting that other time slip past us as if it were not ours. Thus what we see and hear comes to be similar and even the same as what we didn't see or hear, it's just a question of time, or of our own disappearance. And, despite that, we cannot stop focusing our lives on hearing and seeing and witnessing and knowing, in the belief that these lives of ours depend on our spending a day together or answering a phone call or daring to do something or committing a crime or causing a death and knowing that that was how it was. Sometimes I have the feeling that nothing that happens happens, because nothing happens without interruption, nothing lasts or endures or is ceaselessly remembered, and even the most monotonous and routine of existences, by its apparent repetitiveness, gradually cancels itself out, negates itself, until nothing is anything and no one is anyone they were before, and the weak wheel of the world is pushed along by forgetful beings who hear and see and know what is not said, never happens, is unknowable and unverifiable. What takes place is identical to what doesn't take place, what we dismiss or allow to slip by us is identical to what we accept and seize, what we experience identical to what we never try, and yet we spend our lives in a process of choosing and rejecting and selecting, in drawing a line to separate these identical things and make of our story a unique story that we can remember and that can be told. We pour all our intelligence and our feelings and our enthusiasm into the task of discriminating between things that will all be made equal, if they haven't already been, and that's why we're so full of regrets and lost opportunities, of confirmations and reaffirmations and opportunities grasped, when the truth is that nothing is affirmed and everything is constantly in the process of being lost. Or perhaps there never was anything.
    It may be that not one word passed between Miriam and the man during all the time I thought I might be missing what they said. Perhaps they just looked at each other or stood locked in a silent embrace or went over to the bed to get undressed, or perhaps she simply took off her shoes, showing the man the feet she'd so carefully washed before leaving home and which were now tired and aching (the sole of one of them dirty from contact with the pavement). They obviously didn't hit each other or become embroiled in a fight or anything like that (I mean in hand-to-hand combat), because when you do that you immediately start breathing hard and shouting, either just before or afterwards. Perhaps, like me (although I was doing it for Luisa's benefit and going to and fro), Miriam went to the bathroom and shut herself in without saying a word, to look at herself and regain her composure and do her best to erase from her face the accumulated expressions of anger and tiredness and disappointment and relief, wondering which would be the most appropriate, the most advantageous face to wear to confront the left-handed man with the hairy arms who'd found it amusing or diverting to have her wait for no reason and to have her mistake me for him. Perhaps now she'd make him wait for a while, with the bathroom door shut, or perhaps that wasn't what she wanted at all, perhaps she just wanted to sit