must always present itself as new and different, even when it is the same old thing endlessly repeated and simply repackaged with minor changes. But what would it mean to live assuming that we must perpetually change to become something new and different that never quite arrives? Such a perpetual now only masquerades as difference; for, a perpetual now that always almost-appears as new, as change, as difference, is really nothing but sameness under the illusion of difference. Modernity is the repetition