The idiot is condemned to repeat the errors of the past.
In repeating them, he proves his idiocy by expecting a different outcome from his last attempt, only to be disappointed every single time.
This is the very opposite of science, where repetitions of events in the same conditions, with the same instruments deliver identical results. When this doesn't happen, science proceeds into crisis, and a new paradigm is required.
The idiot, then, is the anti-scientist, delivering up the same patterns of behaviour and being surprised and hurt when nothing out of the ordinary happens.
We need not, then, live one thousand lives, each exactly the same as the last, to initiate repetition. Instead, we can do it over and over, inflated with hope for a while, only for the same mistakes to issue through our pores; the same familiar gut-tightening sense of inertia.
If the idiot is condemned to repeat the mistakes of the past, then still bigger idiots consider this repetition to be normal. The ballast of errors, stored up and ready to be fed to the beloved at prescribed times, like pills, each one deadening her a little more, is a consequence of waking up in the morning, and is paid for at a later date with sadness.
Yet, hopelessly, the bigger idiot continues to prostitute himself to the same flame, and then protests bitterly when it burns through skin and bone and soul, for the hundredth time. Like all the other 99 times, it could never have been any other way - we already know this.
