You repeat almost the same actions, adventures, reflections, day in and day out as if laying one transparent leaf atop another until the form the outline of an epoch. It is done knowingly, you enjoy the sense of being in the midst. The repetition is so perfect, perfect enough, that you could almost step for one leaf into another, so many dozens back. If it were no more than the complete idea of itself this would be a possibility, but it is just the fact that it is not, the pure one-way onceness of this instance, that is what is most invariable in these iterations.