Introduction

. . . to the fold

On his way he fell upon three places, for want of a better phrase, in succession. One. Another. Another still. 

Unknown to this weary traveller, his route would prove to be deceptive. The weave of his way left no corner. No apex of strength. Nor of weakness. 
Adopt phase for place, with quiet suggestion that the temporal will yet overrun the spatial. And of course, vice versa. 

One. It was, as such, no place, but his way was lit to suggest as if. 

No single source of light, but light meeting light. Light lightning light. In this abundance of source, that source remained obscure. Here and there, however, say threads, to suggest as if. 

Another. The plane comprised the vast field of that which could be seen. No edge, or border to this plane from whatsoever vantage the weary traveller might seek to gain perspective. If dared such a word as this. In such a place as this. If dared to say place in such… 

And the light of one to the plane of another. The fall of some such horizon, both far off and found immediately before him. 

Details available to the eye inevitably few, but what details salvaged from parched terrain could prove conclusive. If to conclude was indeed willed. 

Guidance of the once made, once served. Served as… 

In this phase his way was impeded severely. Each danger wrought itself anew, although each was wrought in the image of the next. And yet again. Which had endangered all, of course, could not be said. Somehow, without place or time, in this phase, they…shared. 

The path held sway, say even seduced in many ways, and never moreso than at each of these dangers. Thus, severely, and at once, the realization that that had proffered a crossing of some kind. That that which had suggested an opening of some infinitely small measure, would never give that measure of itself. 

Coming back to himself, another still obscured his way. Still the planes, and light meeting light. Here the critical phase where his way, it seems, could only be said to…fold. Thus the planes of infinite number, and thus none at all, would buckle and fold back upon themselves. 

The errant traveller had been made aware of the notion of change in some other phase. He had heard histories before he made his way. Desire, first of all, leading to unexaminable thesis. Desire, second of all, remade the thesis of history. And so he found himself, in this way, on this way. 

Despite this prediction, he did not change until it was upon him. The threads which had long suggested the way on and from no longer guided his path. Crossed and looped, the once infinite threads here could be defined in themselves, and in space. 

This, the new impediment of form, wrought in irony. If such a word might be revived. Temporarily, Figure 8, or &, or suchlike. Thus, by manipulation, the relic of the once used, and the once served, could now serve no more. Merely stand as unsign. The suspended thread. 

On his way, this singularity came upon him in an instant. The history as told to him before he made his way, herein came to him as trial and resolution thereof.

On his way, his way became manifold. The infinite planes expanded still more infinitely, and rejustified. The same singularity could also suggest the compact, and the tensed. For this path held together for him alone, and nothing of the forger who left this as his mark, could be determined. 

Thus, weary from the memories of his journey, he set out upon his journey. The way that once brought him home. With no subject but itself, and itself lost in wake of multiplication, itself divided into unself. Only the coolest residue. 
One. Having been lit. 
Another. Having made way. 
Another still. Having passed back upon itself. 

– Andrew Renton, August 1989