The end of newness.

Truth is repetition.

Different authors from different epochs fall over the same patterns of ideas in response to the external and internal worlds; Artists draw the same shapes.


It had been hours earlier that I, apparently, scratched

Moving ourselves.

Material things, balls and chain, our lot that we must heave when we relocate. Wouldn’t it be better if things were limited to their first places?

¶ 2016·01·15