The Germans talk about insistent songs as ear worms, and now we do too. It's a good enough image. One can imagine the tune boring itself though the ear canal and in towards the brain. Once there, it twists and coils and makes us twitch to the rhythm of its movements.
Maybe that is wrong. Maybe is it a worm, a serpent, biting its own tail like a tape loop.
I have a tune in my head today, but it is not a worm. It goes like a running dog, a wolf. Its feet hit the ground one after another, but it never gets anywhere. Hati, Garmr, other wolves chasing the heavenly bodies along their tracks (the sun and the moon each in their chariot), never catching them, not until Doomsday.
If I humor myself in my fornfræðamóðr, this makes my stuck melody the music of the spheres.
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