Wheeling round a concept's ember like moths in Plato's Cave, going to Saint Ives, and crossed the path of seven wives, kits, cats, sacks, wives: why should a boomerang return?
Again and again, resounding echoes repeat, repeat: hi! hi! As though to greet were to know. Listen to the echo. Hear the echo's voice. It is your own, returning from its travels. Again and again and again and again, til logic's luster fades and sense and sensibilities seen oddly familiar.
But what of Narcissus-X? Is Narcissus-X the moth or the ember?
Both?
Neither?
A weary, wearisome, wearied public hoards, and sleeps, and feeds, and knows not Narcissus-X. For Narcissus-X travels beyond the circles of commonalities, and yet circles the unknown ember of ideal form again and again.
Circles and circles, but never reaching the inner parts. An endless survey from every angle, never departing, never approaching: never reaching.
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