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"I am the oldest Folder," he lamented into

  • "I am the oldest Folder," he lamented into his empty Scotch tumbler. The pistol lay on the desk before him, it's barrel pointing towards the photograph in the cheap brass frame.

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  • It was the now faded heliographic image of 'OldestFolder', a silhouette that few had seen. What was the point of folding alone? He clicked on CREATE for the last time and wrote, "

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  • If, in the future, anyone reads this final fold, let it be known that I tried...I tried, dammit, my best. Farewell & fold on." 2564 years later, cyberarcheologists stumbled upon

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  • a dormant civilization. Abandoned suddenly it seemed, with traces of those who once occupied the space. The web archive that held the digital sherds of these past folds was vast.

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  • The archived past folds were full of scary imagery and strange ideas. I knew I shouldn't study them because I would go stark raving mad. But, inside I wanted to know. I needed to k

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  • neel before the towering daemonic insanity of my future self and shed the innocent carapace of former ways. The fractalogos drove me twitching toward the gates of the fold archives

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  • Where three Surrealist poets sat, smoking and sipping chartreuse. They invited me to join them. I gratefully accepted. Breton, Ernst and Tanguy were great conversationalists. Many

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  • A pitcher of iced water confectioneries had felt the heat of Dali's halitosis. Their faces, now supported by crutches, spelled out for all to see Voltaire's bustier & to stand brea

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  • and to stand breaded with breadder bread crumbs on their faces. You could see they were all guilty of eating without paying.

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  • They were also guilty of eating without praying, and by the time the nuns had finished smacking their knuckles their hands looked like personal pan pizzas. I'm glad I wasn't there.

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