If he described the world he sees as a shape, it would have to be spherical, not because he can see the entire world at once, but because everything in it seems to function in circles.

The circle, he believes, is what destroys beginnings and endings, and cycles disprove the concept of originality. The sun rises and sets, the wind blows in reoccurring patterns, and rivers flow on a course to the sea, even though they never amount to anything.

Watching the world run in circles is so tiring; much more than he can put into words. Nothing surprises him anymore, now that he knows that nothing is new – because to some extent, he knows that everything has happened before, maybe not in the same time, but certainly in the same way.

Anticipation has never felt so boring, so he finds refuge in his imagination where he sees each particle in his body return to dust and be scattered elsewhere. He blinks slowly, like the way daydreamers do, and wonders if this linear line they’re travelling on could possibly become infinitely longer than it is now.


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