Like The Garden of Forking Paths, the story by Borges, or the theoretical physicists fantasy of multiple universes appearing like soap bubbles in each other—each moment forks off into many possibilities, and each one of those forks further. In reality there is only one moment, but the presence of all the unrealized possibilities within or beside that moment plays some role in making it the real, lived moment. Not time passing, but lived in and through. Not the memory, though memory will be present; not the allusion or reference, though both will be present; not the idea, though ideas will be present. To be a real moment, a moment has to be more than real. Such is the despair of the artist.