Spoilers: it can be done. Given paper
large enough, thin enough. I have always been
so creased and compressed I’d explode inside
a compressor. Too heavy to lift and yes, some
have tried or joked about it. The first
seven turns are easy. Everyone has
a set number of tools and limited
energy and then we’re done. We can’t
take any more halving, we can’t keep
coming back to the same place pressed
together. We are all imperfect
logic, math-matched,
given the choice,
the moon or that time
I thought I would never be able
to fold again,
I would take the distance
I have
and be grateful
to stand under.
Sistered to the sky.
Darkness is always ready
to do the final calculations,
to keep close.
If most answer forty five
I return at forty six,
still counting.
At forty seven, nobody
asks any more
where will we go
from here?
