“You go in circles.” Naturally, like automatic fire, it triggers a childhood religion of Nietzsche, apostle of the cyle which he has always tried to steer clear of, but cannot. For he sees them in the tableaux of renunciations & encounters, decay & desire. Must he subscribe to barbershop philosophers & fascist thugs who worship the power of the wheel? Yet, it always happens this déjà vu, whenever he scans the list on the board, & new faces hove into view, as though they have never really trooped out of the room. Images, smiles, gestures, hair & voices are extrapolations of this mystery mathematical that recurs: It was s/he eons ago, it is s/he again before me? & in this illusion of return, this stasis in movement—like the calm in the eye of the storm—he is once more sucked into a wider circle that moves dizzily on a widening gyre: moving straight ahead, but moving around. Will his past & future then intersect in some point of time & space?

It doesn’t seem to matter, anyhow, for names & events, loves & hates melt like ice in his dry, old heart.

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