The Mythology of Repetition

Beneath the skyline, under the first scratch of trees, deep below the tumble of rocks and twist of roots, lived a man without memory.

Each day he would wake and the rich earth would tell him the story of time and birth and death and distance. He would listen intently to every word, turning them in his mind with a delicate passion.

Each night, he would dream the words to silence. He would paint them into invisible shades, dance them to exhaustion, or sing them into such blissful slumber.

Upon waking in the damp, deep, dark of his secret chamber, he would listen once more to the story, and it would be new to him, so he would cry and laugh and shudder at the wondrous magnitude.