That which cannot be repeated will cease to exist. But then, as a matter of course, that which cannot be subject to variation can not be repeated. It's a question of adaptability.

To align oneself with the grid, with history - to attain relevance. To be carried aloft within the nodal-points of historical significance, only to be cast into the vortex, like so many particles of smoke in a wind-tunnel. To be absorbed, to be mapped - to be counted, itemized, listed, categorized, registered, quantified - to be shaped into a brick and laid into the foundations of our our glorious uncertain and legally binding future.

To what we have unwittingly ascribed is a continuum marked by the sound of unravelling fabric. Entropy finds meaning in chaos, a randomness resulting from clever strategies for encoding perspective-planes along too few dimensions. It is really a question of frequency, everything else is just background noise ... "the field" as it were. It is this randomness of nature which teaches us who we are. It is gravity. We are its reluctant subjects and from it's pull we assert our being.

We are pure recapitulation and little else. Themes and variations. If aesthetic appreciation is based on pure familiarity, which it is, then replication may be the only thing we are actually capable of understanding. These copies, these highest forms of flattery are the resonating shapes and tones of our imaginary selves.