"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.

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, "

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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.