From "Via Dolorosa" a story in "Frantic Planet: Vol II" by Stuart Millard

A single moment, frozen in time. Framed in the glare of the flashbulbs that scorched its shadow into the wall, a pair of huddled lovers, spooning with a death-grip tightness and gawped at by Pompeii's apathetic tourists.

 “Alright, I must ask for absolute silence in the studio.”

If you replay something enough times, it loses all meaning. Like when a record skips, the needle scratching out the same fragmented line, over and over, the words and syllables all jumbling together until you feel like you've forgotten how to speak English. Where does one word end and another begin? It's all just static. The white noise of memory on memory, the infinite re-runs in your mind, take after take, each nuance, each vocal inflection and intake of breath repainted so many times that its layers are thick enough to climb up like a ladder into the sky, pulling the saints and harpists out by their halos, tossing them overboard and hearing them as they fall behind you back down into the sin and the filth. That's when you punch God right in the windpipe for endowing human beings with the ability to retain knowledge of past events.

“Prrrrrrrp”