As much, the fold yields light. Perverts the crooks of ploughs and rakes. Splays its moth-light innards — for what it swallows, it swallows in moons — edged in cobweb smoke. Inside and outside are not abandoned to their geometrical opposition (Bachelard, again). The flex of the fold begets itself. It knows no unknowing, mulls over the undulations of space filling them with nocturnal sand.