in girum imus nocte et consumimur igni

Is this a latter day gathering of the founders of an iconoclastic art movement? Or just four middle aged English blokes waiting for their beer?
A long long weekend brooding about life and art and the future and all those things, fuelled partly by driving around Kingston at night in the cold, and stopping into various diners, unabl;e to not overhear inane conversations, then wondering how on earth I could expect conversations in a Kingston diner to be anything other than inane. People shouting into cellphones. I mean, literally shouting, as if we were back in the days of CB radio. Made digesting my banana pancakes very difficult.
Driving through the deserted streets, and probably also because I was ill for no reason (like everyone else) I had slept for 18 hours straight - with that, my mindmaps of the area had been erased and I found myself in new, but oddly familiar streets, as in a dream. Reminded me for no other good reason of France - there's a street by the Y in Kingston that leads to the cemetery, with an avenue of trees. And, as the French like to say, at night all cats are gray. All streets are the same.
Which - being averse to nostalgia - led me to wonder how to get out of this impasse.
Did I not mention the impasse?
We all have sell-by dates and I feel I've outlived my own. Time to do something.
And we've all been talking about the contingent, and instrumentality, and, and, and...
so the line atop this posting is a pure palindrome in Latin.
Well, that's just a freak of language and letters, like madam, I'm Adam or Peel's foe, not a set animal laminates a tone of sleep.
But what does it mean?
Ah... homework.