THE FOX.

What, if some day or night the faceless were to steal after you into your loneliest loneliness and say to you: "This life as you now live it and have lived it, you will have to live once more and innumerable times more; and there will be nothing new in it, but every pain and every joy and every thought and sigh and everything unutterably small or great in your life will have to return to you, all in the same succession and sequence - even this lamb and this moonlight between the trees, and even this moment and I myself. The eternal hourglass of existence is turned upside down again and again, and you with it, speck of dust!"

It’s quiet here, among the whispering of the trees and bumbling of the grass. Quieter than it has any right to be for such an occasion (and what a marvelous occasion it is). The man takes in the moon that hangs by a thread and swings like a pendulum across the dark sky. Here, the world stays in balance and perfect time to the rhythm of his heart, one syncopated beat after the other. 

There is a world of a distance between you two and yet he crosses it as though the physical limitations of law and order were more than mere suggestions of reality. Time shifts with every step toward you and hurls you into the center of its dark mass.