Is what we call beautiful something simple and mundane that we’ve seen repeated a thousand times? Can four notes of music hold beauty, even when we take away the rhythm? Or is rhythm something we find in the repeated image, no matter the sound? If we hear words, and we see the music, is it poetry? If we can find the same strange feeling in the landmark and the everyday occurrence, what makes them different? Ecstasy is often reached by repetition, but so is madness. Is there a difference? Maybe, when we’re experiencing something as mind-numbingly banal as it is sublime, we’re beautifully between the two.